


The Empty House

by mycake, Tunalocked



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Ballroom Dancing, Blindfolds, Blow Jobs, Brothels, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Dating, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Duct Tape, F/F, F/M, Female Lestrade, Female Sherlock Holmes, Ficlet Collection, Handcuffs, Lestrade-centric, M/M, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Omega Verse, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn Watching, Prostitution, Public Sex, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Teenlock, Transvestite, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 01:05:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 37,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycake/pseuds/mycake, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tunalocked/pseuds/Tunalocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A porno-rama of AU and not so AU ficlets. Intended to survey the vast world of Sherlock fandoms from Omega-verse to Lamplock. Including some novel alternate universes in between.<br/>Stories include classical pairings such as Johnlock and Mystrade and neo-classicals such as Sherstrade and Johncroft. Along with many appearances by beloved characters and out of the box pairings. <br/>If a couple isn't your cup of tea, you can skip to the next fic! It's fantastic! <br/>What are you waiting for? An invitation? Free porn!<br/>(Now accepting prompts)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Love Nest: Omegaverse Johnlock

John Watson made up the bed for the fifth time, ensuring everything was in order. He rearranged the pillows several times, fluffed them a bit, and placed them back at the head of the bed.

Breeding season was upon them and there was no better way to spend the winter than with one’s mate, wrapped up in each other’s warmth. John was anxiously waiting for the first heat of the year to jump start breeding season. He wasn’t sure how his new mate would respond to their first mating session and he was beginning to worry he’d be rejected.

His mate was showing all the classic signs of being ready to breed. He was snippy, irrational, and eating more than usual and for Sherlock Holmes, it was surprising when he ate at all. It was like skating on thin ice, every time John ventured into the kitchen. He wasn’t sure how Sherlock would regard him. Usually it was will utter indifference and occasionally he employed John’s help with something, but for the most part Sherlock kept to himself.

This particular day, John walked out of the bedroom, down the hall, and into the kitchen to find Sherlock working diligently on a project. John felt like sharing his accomplishment of preparing the bed but knew Sherlock could care less about the state of the ‘love nest’.

John discreetly sniffed the air for any pheromone cues. His mouth began salivating and he subtly licked his lips. Sherlock was definitely close, but not quite there yet. John carefully approached Sherlock from the front, so as not to spook him.

Sherlock continued inoculating broth tubes, ignoring John’s presence. John cleared his throat. Sherlock kept his head down and continued flaming his inoculating loop.

“Need anything?” John offered. He could smell Sherlock’s unique and intoxicating aroma. It was like a cross between puppy’s breath, pomegranates, and something else John couldn’t quite pinpoint.

John let out an involuntary grunt and Sherlock looked up from his work.

“A cold shower wouldn’t do?” Sherlock asked.

John swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, I didn’t-“

“There’s no need to worry about stepping on toes.” Sherlock looked back down at his tube rack. “It’s only your nature.”

John nodded dumbly and wiped the drool from his lips. “Should we... court?” he asked with an awkward high pitched inflection.

“I have no intentions of mating this season or any season for that matter.”

John felt his heart drop into his stomach. “But, we’re mates.”

“Flatmates, yes,” Sherlock said with a long bored drawl.

“What about your heat?”

“I can manage on my own, I have before.” Sherlock looked up once more. “Is that okay with you?”

“I suppose it has to be,” John said, clutching on to the counter. “It’s your body.”

Sherlock smirked. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

“If that’s how you feel. I can’t force you into it.” John thought a moment. “Well I could... I wouldn’t.”

“You believe you could?”

“I know I could. What’s important is I wouldn’t.”

“You can cut out the big strong Alpha routine,” Sherlock scoffed.

“I could do it; I could make you,” John said puffing up his chest. Sherlock stood up and John stood his ground as Sherlock approached him. Sherlock loomed over him, breathing heavily. He was a good half a foot taller than John and broader in the shoulders too, but Sherlock lacked years of experience and hand-to-hand combat training. John could easily take him out if he wanted to.

John licked his lips and considered his options. He could show Sherlock his brute strength or he could fold and let Sherlock win the argument. John swallowed his pride and chose the latter.

Sherlock laughed and pushed John aside as he walked into the parlour. “You’re not like other Alphas,” Sherlock commented. John kept up his hopes that Sherlock might change his mind if he played his cards right.

“In what way?” John ventured.

“You’re small,” Sherlock chuckled.

John bit his tongue and tried his best not to satisfy him with an idiotic response. “I’m big where it counts,” he let slip.

Sherlock laughed and John became disheartened with his progress. He’d gone through too much to be turned down now. He took it personally that Sherlock wouldn’t mate with him.

“I’m sure you are,” Sherlock chuckled maliciously. He reached for his violin and John knew he had lost him.

“I’ll be in the bedroom if you need me,” John said with a heavy sigh.

“I won’t.”

“Well I’ll be there anyway.”

John returned to his nest and sucked back a few tears, let out a shuddered breath, and fell onto the bed. He should have been used to rejection after a decade of failed breeding seasons, but each hurt worse than the last. He thought it would have been different with this one but he was sadly mistaken.

Sherlock was the most unlikely partner he had ever had. John was just so alone; he couldn’t bear another season without a mate. He chose Sherlock because nobody else would. Now he knew why.

Sherlock was attractive, alluring, and every bit the partner John could have ever dreamed of, but he had the personality of a cornered tiger with a thorn in its paw. Sherlock’s brother discouraged their pairing and had even offered John money to live elsewhere. However, John was stubborn and thought he was the one that could tame Sherlock.

John sulked in the bed, drawing the pillows close to simulate Sherlock’s body. He wrapped his leg around the stack of pillows and felt frustrated with the poor analogue.

Sherlock burst into the room unannounced. “You said you’re big where it counts.” John gave him a blank look. “Prove it.”

Sherlock crawled into the bed and sat in the middle looking at John intently. Sherlock’s pupils were lust blown and John knew this was his make or break moment.

“You... want to see it?”

Sherlock nodded eagerly. Sherlock held his hands between his shaking thighs, trying to conceal his arousal. John sucked in a few breaths, letting Sherlock’s smell mull over his tongue. John’s hands shook as he pulled down his jean’s zip. Sherlock's face went blank as John released himself from his pants.

John reached out for Sherlock’s hand and placed it on his warm throbbing member. Sherlock stared at John’s prick with an analytical gaze.

“What do I do?” Sherlock asked looking John directly in the eyes. He gave John a worried look when he didn’t respond right away. He pulled his hand away and placed it back in between his legs. “I’ve never...”

“I know,” John said, placing a hand on Sherlock’s arm. “It’s fine.”

Sherlock didn’t seem too sure. He continued to look away at a fixed point on the bed spread. “I’ve tried everything I can to stop it. Melatonin, progesterone... I’ve even tried testosterone, in hopes that I wouldn’t have to put you through this.”

John laughed in response. “What’s so bad about mating?”

“I don’t want to _breed,_ ” Sherlock emphasized.

John gave it some thought. “But you only have a few more years of it... then you can’t reproduce. And-“

“You don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?” John asked with a curious head tilt.

“I don’t want children. I don’t even _like_ children.”

John let the thought mull over in his mind. “But you want to mate?” Sherlock nodded in response. “You can’t exactly have one without the other.”

“You’ve mated before. Unsuccessfully too, might I add.”

“Don’t remind me,” John said, rubbing his eyes. “Are we going to do this or should I...” John looked down at his exposed cock. Sherlock looked down as well and John noticed Sherlock’s lips shudder, ever so slightly. “We could just fool around, there’s nothing saying we _have_ to breed.”

“I’m not a fool, John Watson,” Sherlock said with a mocking laugh. “I can see right through your plan.”

“I’m not planning anything.”

“The moment I slip into full heat you won’t be able to control yourself and neither will I. We’ll become a tangled mess of liquid sex.”

“What’s so wrong with that?” John sat up and before his better judgement could get the better of him, he clutched on to the back of Sherlock’s neck and brought their lips together. Sherlock pursed his lips and refused to let it go any further.

John thought if only their tongues could meet and they could swap some non-volatile pheromones, then Sherlock would see he was a fit mate. He gripped Sherlock tighter, up to the threshold of pain, and when Sherlock winced, John started into an open mouthed snog.

Sherlock met his embrace with enthusiasm and began softly moaning into the kiss. John pulled away and Sherlock followed him, bringing their lips back together. John slowly leaned back and Sherlock crawled forward in desperate need.

John hands ventured down Sherlock’s backside and under his trousers. He cupped Sherlock’s arse in both hands and gave him a good squeeze. He pulled Sherlock forward and on top of him in order to close the distance between their genitals.

Sherlock ground into him with natural instinct, while John started exploring the cleft of his ass with his fingertips. The pads of his fingers met Sherlock’s entrance and he was surprised to find it relatively dry. Sherlock already smelled heavily of pheromones; John couldn’t imagine what he’d be like or smell like when he finally started into his heat.

Sherlock quivered with anticipation and broke the kiss. He looked at John with doubt and fear. John hushed him and tried to comfort him the best he could. He pulled Sherlock forward once more, to try and get him back in the groove of rubbing up against him. Sherlock remained apprehensive and worrisome.

“What would help?” John asked.

Sherlock bit at his lower lip, before shaking his head.  “I don’t know. I just don’t know. And perhaps that's what frightens me the most.”

“You’re doing fine,” John assured him as he slid his hands down further. Sherlock remained pinned to John’s chest. His breathing grew heavy and uneven. “We don’t have to do this, you know? I won’t-“

“Don’t talk me down from this,” Sherlock growled. “I know what I want.” He looked down at John with unbridled carnal desire and licked his lips. John withdrew his hands and pulled down Sherlock’s zip. He slid his hand under the front of Sherlock’s pants and started palming him roughly.

Sherlock had an impressive length for an Omega.  Then again, John was used to female companions, and hadn’t seen many Omega cocks in his day.

Sherlock started panting and thrusting into his hand, which in turn made John even harder. Sherlock let out a high pitched whimper and stopped mid-stride. He started shaking at the knees.

“I’m ready,” Sherlock said, pulling away quickly. He stood on his knees before John and started stripping his trousers and pants.

John finally got a good look of Sherlock’s half-naked form and was stunned. Never in a million years did he believe he’d ever be with a well-hung Omega male.

Sherlock turned abruptly and presented himself with his arse high in the air. John’s mind blanked as he looked at his mate’s rear end. He sat up and blinked a few times, trying to remember what comes next. He reached out and placed a hand on Sherlock’s arse and ran his thumb down the cleft to find it pleasantly moist.

The sweet smell of heat hit John all at once and made him light-headed. He began drooling profusely as he sat up on to his knees. He gave himself a few strokes and allowed himself to succumb to his primal urges.

John clamped his hands on to Sherlock’s mid-section, fell forward, and ran his tongue down Sherlock’s lumbar curvature. He reached his tail-bone and Sherlock jerked. John smiled to himself and placed a kiss at the top of Sherlock’s cleft before running his tongue down to Sherlock’s entrance.

Sherlock made all sorts of delicious noises that encouraged John to continue probing with his tongue. He began begging for it and John’s libido increased exponentially. His tongue breeched Sherlock’s entrance and Sherlock nearly collapsed.

John pulled back and wiped his face clean with his sleeve. He gave Sherlock’s right thigh a slap and nudged him to roll over. Sherlock refused to budge, even as John tried to knock him over with a shove. John gritted his teeth and used all his strength to push Sherlock over and onto his side.

Sherlock tried to roll back on to his stomach and John struggled to roll him on to his back. They wrestled back and forth until John clenched onto Sherlock’s wrists and pinned them above his head, effectively holding him steady and in a face to face position.

John wanted to see every minute detail on Sherlock’s face as he bred him. Sherlock closed his eyes and turned his head away as John shifted to hold down his wrists with one hand.

John knew this was a very sensitive little dance they needed to perform. Too many times before he was rejected at this stage; right before insertion. Sherlock kept his legs together and his arse clenched. At this stage the Omega wanted it desperately but in a last line of defence they would refuse to fully submit until the Alpha would prove himself and take them forcefully.

John hated this part of the mating ritual because it could prove painful for Omega and Alpha alike. Most Alphas didn’t think twice about pummelling into their mate. It was effective but John lacked the drive to force his way in.

He tried prying Sherlock’s legs apart with his free hand but Sherlock held his knees together tighter. The moment he let go of Sherlock’s wrists, Sherlock rolled over on to his stomach. John let out an indignant whine.

He allowed his lizard brain to catch up with the situation and found the position to be in his favour, even with Sherlock clenching his muscles. John slid his hand in between Sherlock’s legs and ran his middle finger up to his perineum.

“Come on, open up for me,” John panted. He pressed lightly and gently caressed the spot until Sherlock began to moan and relax his inner thighs. Sherlock shifted his hips in a circular motion and John took the opportunity to coax him to open up more, by sliding his middle finger up and against Sherlock’s entry.

Sherlock clutched on to the bedspread as John slid his finger in slowly. John curved his finger and began searching for his sweet spot. John searched blindly, stroking softly. John added another finger and continued to torture Sherlock with his slow soft strokes. Sherlock moaned deeply and rotated his hips to guide John’s finger to where he wanted it.

Sherlock’s hips slowly started levitating upwards and John started working his fingers in faster. Sherlock pushed backwards and began fucking himself on John’s fingers. John slowly pulled out his fingers and prepared to mount, only to have Sherlock grab his hand once more and try guide his fingers back in.

John found it difficult, but not impossible, to mount Sherlock while he had a death grip on his wrist. John took his free hand, pressed the head of his cock to Sherlock’s entrance, and was immediately met with resistance. He gave it a good shove and Sherlock howled and let go of John’s other wrist.

John continued pressing deeper as Sherlock winced and cringed. After he was fully seated, he allowed Sherlock to adjust to the sensation. John gripped Sherlock’s hips tightly and gave an experimental thrust. Sherlock dug his fingers deeper into the bed-sheets and clenched his fists.

John used every bit of his reserve to take it slow and easy. Sherlock spread his legs further and let out a satisfied sigh. John ran his hands down Sherlock’s back and massaged around his spine to further ease his discomfort. Sherlock let out a muffled moan and began to relax.

John felt a tingling sensation radiate from the tips of his fingers right down to his toes. It felt as if his chest was lightening and all of his pains were starting to melt away. He never wanted the feeling to end and the harder he pumped into Sherlock, the more euphoric he became. His mind went blank with exhilaration and he became numb to the world.

He could no longer control the words coming out of his mouth.

“Oh God, take it. Take that Alpha cock.” He gave Sherlock a swift slap on the arse and felt the repercussion reverberate throughout his core. By now he was going at it full force and Sherlock was a pleasure vessel fit to burst.

John was consumed with the need to breed and frantically clawed at Sherlock’s back to get a better grip. He pressed on the back of Sherlock’s head to drive him into the mattress to achieve a better angle. Sherlock’s hips rose instinctively and John firmly held his head down while he enjoyed his spoils.

John’s knot started to swell and things became even more heated. He removed his hand from the back of Sherlock’s head and threw all of his body weight against him, forcing him to collapse. John lay on top of Sherlock’s back, biting at his neck and shoulders. John started to growl as the tension became too much.

Sherlock struggled away from the impending knot and John held him firmly in place. John gripped Sherlock’s shoulders, pressed up, and pounded in to him, causing the bed’s headboard to slam into the wall with every deep thrust.

“John!” Sherlock cried out with a strangled yelp. John was so close he could barely make out the sounds of Sherlock’s cries for mercy. All that was left was a quick slip in; then glorious orgasms awaited him on the other side.

Sherlock continued to wail as John’s knot tried to breech his tight hole. Just then, something clicked in John’s brain. He grabbed the shaft of his penis, right before the knot, and continued sliding in and out, until the stimulus was too much to bear.

John pulled out completely, worked himself in his hand, and came with an eruptive force. A glob of semen hit his chin and dribbled down his chest. John looked down in a daze to see the mess he’d made.

Sherlock turned to look back at John and John snorted a laugh. Sherlock sunk his head into his hands and brushed back his hair.

“Phew,” he said with a heavy breath.

“That was... mad,” John said, shaking his head.

“You weren’t the one being nailed into the floorboards.”

“How was it?” John asked as he searched for some tissues.

“Fine,” Sherlock said with a shrug. John chuckled to himself, because he knew it was more than just fine for Sherlock. “And thank you.”

“For what?”

“Maintaining some sense of self-control.” Sherlock pressed up on to his hands and winced.

“Well... yeah,” John blushed. “You said you didn’t want children.”

“Hm. But you do.”

“It’s fine,” John said with a wry smirk. “Just as long as I can do that again.”

Sherlock stretched and thought to himself for a moment. “I believe it can be arranged.”

“Then it’s all fine.”


	2. The Rape Room: Omegaverse Mystrade

When Greg received the orders from high, he was more than a bit nervous that he’d done something wrong. When he was led to the office of Mycroft Holmes he was almost certain that what he’d done wrong concerned Mycroft’s brother.

Greg racked his brains, trying to come up with what he could have possibly done. He felt his heart flutter as he stepped into the room and met, face to face, with the man of mystery. The door closed behind him and he heard a faint click of the lock turning.

“Detective Inspector, have a seat,” Mycroft said with a congenial smile as he motioned to the chair in front of his desk. Greg obeyed and sat down quickly. He had no idea what Mycroft could possibly want from him. “It has come to my attention that you’ve been through a rather nasty divorce of late.”

Greg nodded dumbly, with his mouth half open. His eyes darted around the room for any sign of why he was called in that day.

“How has the breeding season been treating you?”

Greg swallowed hard and tried to get the answer straight in his head. “Fine.”

“No problems at work?”

“None,” he replied. Greg saw Mycroft’s tongue slowly and subtly drag over his lips.

“Good,” he said in a cheerful tone. “I know how difficult it can be, being an Omega in the heat of breeding season.”

“So you’re an Omega, sir?” Greg asked with a gulp.

“Of course.”

Greg let out a huge sigh of relief. He felt the tension release from his shoulders and he allowed his buttocks to relax. For a moment he believed Mycroft was keen on breeding him, right there in his office. The windows were drawn closed, the walls were thick, and he was pretty sure the doors were locked from the outside; all of it made for the perfect scenario to be raped.

Greg felt as if he should have known better. Mycroft was a government official. He wasn’t interested in creating a scandal; especially not in his own office. However, Mycroft still retained the predatory look in his eyes and was staring at Greg with an unrelenting and hungry gaze. Greg wasn’t sure where this was heading.

“We Omegas must stick together, don’t you agree?” Mycroft asked as he stood up from his chair and fixed his suit jacket. He walked over to Greg with a confident stride and stopped just short of his chair. “What would you say to dinner? At mine, let’s say, eight o’clock?”

Greg nodded and looked up at Mycroft in awe. He was really surprised Mycroft didn’t have a mate. It seemed as if everyone was paired off this season. Even Sherlock had someone.

Greg jumped when the door handle turned open and his usher walked back into the room.

“See to it the car picks up Detective Inspector Lestrade in time for dinner at eight,” Mycroft said to the usher. “Casual-wear is fine,” Mycroft said to Greg with a wry smirk.

Greg was led out of the room before he had the chance to gather his thoughts, which was a good thing. The longer he stayed in the office, the more likely it was he'd say something stupid.

At home Greg nervously went through his wardrobe in search of something corporate casual. He didn’t want to be too showy, but on the other hand, it was dinner with Mycroft and he could only assume the man slept in a three piece pyjama set.

Greg became increasingly concerned about how Mycroft knew he was an Omega. Most everyone Greg had met thought he was an Alpha, everyone that is except Sherlock Holmes who casually announced to all of Scotland Yard that Greg was actually a bitch.

It was embarrassing to have an Alpha wife; people looked down upon such couples. When Greg failed to produce offspring after ten years of torrid marriage, his wife surprised him with a divorce and went off to mate with some PE teacher. Their first breeding season was a failure as well and Greg was beginning to think it was his wife that was infertile; not him.

It was difficult being a single Omega in London. He had only to look to Sherlock for reassurance that the world was a messed up place. The man had a target on his back. Even his arch enemies wanted to breed him. Greg couldn’t understand why everyone believed Sherlock was so attractive; to him he was kind of alien looking and had the personality of a wet cat.

Greg looked out his window to see the car pull up in front of the house. Greg collected himself, dressed in the least gaudy button-down he owned, and went downstairs to greet the driver.

On the ride to Mycroft’s abode Greg continued to wonder about Mycroft’s intentions. He hardly knew the man and inviting someone over for dinner what very intimate. However, he did say he was an Omega as well. And unless he was lying, Greg was fairly certain the evening wasn’t a scheme to lure him into Mycroft’s bedroom in the middle of breeding season.

Greg was let out in front of a grand terraced home that was at least four times the size of his house. Before he could even raise his knuckles to knock on the door, Mycroft answered.

“Gregory, do come in.” Mycroft turned on his heels and beckoned Greg in. “Is it okay if I call you Gregory?”

“Greg’s fine.”

“Greg.” Mycroft repeated with a smile. “Come in.” He placed a hand on Greg’s shoulder and gently guided him into the entryway. Mycroft slowly shut the door and Greg heard another small click of tumblers locking into place.

“Do all your doors do that?”

“Do what?”

“Never mind,” Greg said, shaking his head. Mycroft led him to the formal dining room where two places were set right next to one another on the same side of the table. Mycroft held out his chair for him and Greg took his seat. Mycroft removed the dish cover to reveal a small bowl of piping hot soup.

“Bon appétit,” Mycroft said with a smirk.

Greg felt his facial muscles twitch as he drew in a deep breath. The smell was absolutely intoxicating and he soon found the taste was to die for. Mycroft took his seat and began digging in immediately.

Greg ate eagerly, but half way through his bowl he began to slow down. Greg yawned and blinked his eyes a few times. He felt warm and relaxed in Mycroft’s presence. He felt as if he was a small kitten wrapped up in a sea of warm fuzzy blankets.

Mycroft began speaking in his low, lullaby voice, and Greg started drifting off; snapping awake every once in a while to save face. Greg rested his chin on his hand and thought if he could only close his eyes for a moment he’d be well rested and alert.

Greg woke up the next morning to the blinding sunlight cascading through a large arching two-storey window. He felt very warm and comfortable, yet slightly sore. He sat up slowly and looked around the empty bed that was definitely not his own.

The bed sheets slipped off his chest and Greg found that he was rather naked. He clutched on to the sheets in a panic, remembering where he was and who he was with. Greg yanked the sheets off the bed to cover himself up in a makeshift toga and went straight for the door leading out to the hall.

He pulled on the door handle with all his might but it refused to budge. He tried the window but it was locked as well. He opened the other door and discovered the en suite bathroom. He looked at the door handle to see it lacked a locking mechanism.

Greg knew what this room was; he’d seen them a thousand times before. Such ‘rape rooms’ were illegal to possess though many older houses still had them. Greg couldn’t believe he’d fallen for such a thing.

He sat on the edge of the tub and scrubbed at his face with his hands. He heard the door handle turn and was quick to slam the door shut before Mycroft could enter.

“Oh good, you’re up.” Mycroft said from the other side of the door. “Now, if you don’t mind I’d like to have sex before work.”

Greg was absolutely appalled by what he was hearing. “You could have asked!” He shouted.

“You would have said no. Now come on out. There’s no use hiding in there. Surely you’ve noticed there’s no locking mechanism on the door. Don’t make this more difficult than it has to be.” Mycroft opened the door and Greg covered himself up entirely with the bed-sheet. “I really wish you would listen to my proposition. I need you only for the short term; then you are free to go and live your life.”

“Yeah but what if I get pregnant?”

“I’m an Omega, Greg. I honestly doubt-“

“Then why have you kidnapped me?” Greg stood up straight and glared at Mycroft, hoping to make a dent in his callous demeanour.

“I have needs and so do you.”

“Then why didn’t you just ask?” Greg groaned as he rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “You don’t go and kidnap some guy because you want to court them.”

“I see,” Mycroft said, running his tongue over his teeth. Greg knew he had him cornered. “It’s just... not everyone is willing to accept a...” Mycroft let out a deep breath. “Homosexual proposition,” he said with a pained grimace.

“Well not if you go and kidnap them.”

“Would you-“ Mycroft cut himself off before he let his temper get the better of him. “I apologise for an inconveniences I’ve caused you.”

“You invited me over under false pretences, drugged me, and proceeded to have sex with me while I was unconscious.”

“I know what I did,” Mycroft snapped.

“Are you sorry for that too?”

“No,” Mycroft said shortly. “Only for the trouble it might have caused.”

“For you?”

“Excuse me?” Mycroft asked, straightening up.

“You’re only sorry because your actions caused trouble for yourself.”

“Well, don’t make me sound so shallow.”

“Need I remind you-“

“Get on the bed. You’re still my hostage until further notice,” Mycroft snapped his fingers and pointed towards the bed.

“Could you be any more like your brother?” Greg snorted a laugh and stayed put. “I’m not your toy.”

“You’ll do as I say.”

“Or what?”

“I’ll be forced to use alternative methods of making you comply.”

Greg released his grip on the bed-sheet and allowed it to pool around his ankles. “You couldn’t go through with it. Could you?”

“You’re in no position to mock me.”

“What? I think it’s kind of... sweet. You knocking me out and not having the guts to go through with it.”

“What use would I have with an unconscious man?”

Greg let the thought mull through his head for a moment. “You want me to...” Greg’s eyes went straight to Mycroft’s bum. Suddenly he felt very self conscious of his naked form and covered up his genitals with both hands. “Why not get some Alpha to do the job?”

Mycroft looked away and let out a sigh. “I’ve always found them to be too... _rough_.”

“Don’t you want children?”

“Not particularly, no.” Mycroft looked at Greg out of the corner of his eye. “But you do?”

Greg nodded solemnly. Mycroft looked at the ground in what Greg thought was remorse.

“There are always other options for fertilization,” Mycroft shrugged.

“Are you suggesting we-“

“Heavens, no. This is only a temporary fix. I would never...” Mycroft bit back his words. “You wouldn’t want me as a partner. I mean... I’ve kidnapped you, haven’t I?”

“I suppose you did.” Greg walked over to the bed and took a seat. “I blame the season.”

“How have your heats been this year?”

Greg was taken aback by the personal question. “Fine.”

“Fine?” Mycroft asked, cocking his eyebrow.

“Bloody miserable,” Greg admitted. Mycroft chuckled in response. “I thought I’d be with my mate throughout eternity. You can see how _that_ turned out.”

“She just didn’t realise how good she had it.”

“Alpha females...” Greg said, shaking his head. “What was I thinking?”

“They really do have all the worst qualities of women.”

“Yeah, just look at Sergeant Donovan,” Greg said with a laugh. Greg looked down at himself. “So how does this work? You and me.”

“Just as it would with an Alpha/Omega pair.”

“Yeah but I’ve never... used it,” Greg blushed. “At least not in that way. Have you? I mean, does it work?”

“To an extent,” Mycroft said, clearing his throat.

“I never really thought about it. It’s always been more of an accessory.”

“It is the same organ, just dwarfed.”

Greg crossed his legs as Mycroft walked over to the bed.

Mycroft took a seat next to him and looked pointedly at Greg’s lap. “May I?”

Greg moved his hands away slowly. Mycroft reached out and barely brushed his soft finger tips over the head of Greg’s cock. Greg leaned back on to his hands and closed his eyes. He tried to imagine an Alpha touching him but he found he couldn’t imagine anyone else caressing him so softly, especially not an Alpha.

Greg leaned toward Mycroft and when their lips touched, Mycroft went rigid. Greg opened his eyes to see that Mycroft was truly embarrassed. Greg pulled back and blushed.

“I’m sorry,” Greg said, looking away.

“It’s... fine...” Mycroft stammered. “I just wasn’t expecting such an... affectionate response.”

“It’s just a kiss,” Greg looked over to see Mycroft was blushing bright red. “Never been kissed?”

Mycroft fiddled with the bottom button of his waistcoat. Greg licked his lips and thought of his plan of attack. Mycroft had a key on him somewhere and Greg only needed to distract him just long enough to liberate it from him.

Greg gripped both sides of Mycroft’s face and crushed their lips together. He licked and nibbled at Mycroft’s lower lip. His action was met with the most delicious moan that seemed to come from the absolute depths of Mycroft’s chest.

Mycroft laced his fingers through Greg’s hair and clutched on to the back of his head, pulling him close. He opened his mouth and Greg’s eyes fluttered from the taste of his tongue. It was sweet, moist, and highly skilled. There was no hiding his arousal at that point.

His nimble fingers went to work on Mycroft’s waistcoat and Mycroft held his hands still. He broke the kiss and looked down at Mycroft’s hands.

“This is gonna be kind of difficult with you in all those clothes.”

“I don’t see why I need to take my shirt off.”

“Well, at least remove your coat,” Greg said, trying to push his suit coat off his shoulders. Mycroft let the coat slide off his arms to reveal his shirt’s sleeves. Greg clutched on to Mycroft’s arms and massaged them gently as he continued the embrace. Mycroft’s biceps felt tense. Greg pulled away once more.

“You know, I’m the one in a compromising position. I don’t know why-“ Greg had a sudden realization. His eyes darted to Mycroft’s waistcoat pockets. Now he only had to guess which pocket it would be in.

He leaned forward and their lips met once more, this time Greg was determined. He kissed Mycroft feverously and stroked his chest. Whenever his hand ventured too close to his waistcoat pockets, Mycroft redirected his focus elsewhere.

Greg’s hand reached Mycroft’s crotch and he began groping him through his trousers. Greg was a little bit more rough than necessary and Mycroft was greatly appreciative. Greg managed to get Mycroft to lie down.

Greg straddled Mycroft’s midsection and he knew he had him beat. Greg pinned Mycroft’s arms above his head with one hand and began searching his pockets with his free hand. He slipped his fingertips into the silken interior of the first pocket, then the second.

Mycroft began laughing maliciously.

“Where’s the key?” Greg growled as he clutched on to both of Mycroft’s wrists.

“You’re such a big strong Omega, aren’t you?” Mycroft asked with a smirk as he wriggled his hips. Greg could feel his arousal through his trousers, pressing into the cleft of his ass.

Greg gripped Mycroft’s wrists tighter and bared his teeth. “I’ve had enough of your games.”

“Need I remind you, you were enjoying yourself? That is, until your silly plan of escape popped into your head.” Mycroft gave him a wicked smile. “There is no escape, Greg.”

Greg let go of Mycroft’s hands, gripped his waistcoat, and tore it apart. Mycroft gasped as the buttons went flying. Greg did the same to his shirt, making sure to destroy it beyond repair. Greg didn’t waste any time tearing off Mycroft’s trousers as well.

Greg slid off the bed and threw Mycroft’s trousers across the room.

“Now we’re on level playing fields,” Greg said, clenching his teeth.

“You’ll pay for that,” Mycroft hissed.

Greg chuckled, looking at Mycroft’s pale, freckled, naked form. Mycroft drew his shirt closed in a frail attempt to cover himself up.

Greg took the opportunity to pounce. Mycroft batted him away with his hands as Greg tried to force himself down his throat.

“Go on, then. You wanted it,” Greg laughed as he waved his dick in front of Mycroft’s face.

“That’s disgusting,” Mycroft scowled. Greg sat on Mycroft’s chest and ran his hands through Mycroft’s soft hair.

“We could have been great mates, if you weren’t such a massive prick,” he said, as he gripped Mycroft’s hair tightly.

Mycroft grimaced and struggled to push Greg off his chest.

“I’ll bite,” he warned.

“Don’t think you will. If you catch my drift,” Greg pressed his cock to Mycroft’s lips. “You know you want it.”

Mycroft grimaced but opened his mouth to allow Greg to slide in.

Greg held on to the back of Mycroft’s head and guided his mouth up and down his shaft. Mycroft’s tension began to ease and the more he sucked, the more eager he became.

“You like that?” Greg asked breathlessly. Mycroft responded with a moan. Greg closed his eyes and smiled to himself. He could live with this. This felt amazing. Perhaps he was truly meant to be an Alpha.

He decided to up the ante and thrust his cock into Mycroft’s mouth, reaching the back of his throat and soft palate. Mycroft struggled to suppress his gag reflex and Greg found it difficult to hold back.

He pulled out and a string of saliva clung onto his prick as it left Mycroft’s smooth lips.

“Let’s do this,” Greg panted as he dismounted Mycroft’s chest and stood on the floor. He had never been so hard in his life and when Mycroft shifted on his back to draw his legs up and lift his hips, Greg was dumbfounded that Mycroft was submitting so easily.

He pressed his fingers to Mycroft’s entrance and found him sufficiently wet. He looked into Mycroft’s eyes to see he was far gone in lust.

Mycroft pleaded for relief.

“It’s alright, I’ve got you,” Greg assured him. He felt empathy for Mycroft. He knew the pain of heat and the madness of not having a partner to relieve it. Greg worked his finger in and watched as Mycroft’s face contorted. He stroked upward and he thought Mycroft was going to go through the roof.

Mycroft curled his toes and wrapped his legs around Greg’s torso. Greg removed his finger and replaced it with the head of his cock. Mycroft began to sweat. He begged for it.

Greg slid in slowly and felt the warm, smooth, pressure massage the head of his cock. Greg began to drool at the sensation. He pressed in fully and let out a grunt. There was no primal need to breed, no intuition or instinct, but Greg felt as if this was the way things should be.

He pumped into Mycroft’s accepting hole and revelled in the response he was receiving. Mycroft was keening for it and clenching around him tightly. His savoury heat juices seeped out of his heat warmed hole and Greg felt as if every one of his nerve ending was firing at once.

“God,” Greg grunted. “It’s fucking tight.”

Greg repositioned himself to maximize Mycroft’s pleasure. Mycroft’s first orgasm came without warning and he shot halfway up his chest.

Greg gave it a moment before snapping his hips forward. He knew if he timed it right, he could get another orgasm out of him.

He became cocky very quickly when Mycroft was brought to another earth shattering orgasm and started begging for him to stop. Greg pulled him closer and started into rapid shallow thrusts. Mycroft’s thighs quaked and he began shaking all over. Greg was in ecstasy but he soon became over stimulated himself. He ached for release. 

Greg pulled out and stroked himself in his fist as he climbed back on to the bed.

“Suck it,” was all he needed to say for Mycroft to swing around, dive head first at his groin, and place his cock between his lips. Mycroft sucked avidly and bobbed his head up and down. He took Greg deep into his throat and Greg clutched on to the back of Mycroft’s head.

All he needed was two good sharp jabs to Mycroft’s soft palate in order to come with an explosive force. Greg threw his head back and let out an erotic moan. He let go of Mycroft and fell forward on to the bed.

Mycroft wiped his lips with his shirt sleeve and sat up.

“Same time tomorrow?” Mycroft asked.

Greg nodded drunkenly and Mycroft handed him the key to the _rape room._


	3. Fag-master: Teenlock Johnlock

John breathed uneasily as the boy he hardly knew palmed his crotch and breathed heavily down his neck. John’s eyes were locked on the door handle, praying no one would walk in.

“Sherlock, we’re dead if they find us together. It’s well past light’s out. I’m going to have to-“

“Sh,” Sherlock said pressing a finger to John’s lips. “You’re not going anywhere,” Sherlock said pressing a kiss to John’s chest as he worked open the remaining buttons of his shirt. John removed his tie and threw it over the chair, knowing resistance was futile with the boy. John rubbed his forehead and let out a distressed sigh.

John lay in Sherlock’s bed, wondering where he’d gone wrong in his life. He should have never applied to Harrow in the first place, is what he should have done. It was tearing his family apart with financial strain and he wasn’t achieving the marks to justify such an expensive school. Moreover he’d unintentionally become the house’s patron fag-boy.

John bit at his lip and looked down at Sherlock’s mop of curls. He didn’t expect a boy like Sherlock to get sucked into the tradition of fagging. Though it did have its benefits, John was often too tired at the end of the day after running errands and serving his fag-masters. He had five that had claimed him and fought over him constantly.

Most of them wanted him for slave-labour. Some were kinder than others and only one wanted him for perverse reasons. John was convinced he wouldn’t stay with Sherlock for long. The boy enjoyed rubbing up against him and asked for little else; it made John uncomfortable to say the least.

Sherlock had him for Friday evenings, Wednesday mornings, and Saturday afternoons. It was the only time John wasn’t forced to shine shoes, scrub floors, or cook anything, but he wasn’t sure he liked being kissed and touched by another boy.

Sherlock continued to grope John through his trousers and John began to feel a hard-on coming on. He shied away from Sherlock’s lips that were suction cupped to his neck like a whelk.

“Alright, that’s enough,” John said as he pulled away Sherlock’s hand.

“You’re afraid you’ll enjoy it,” Sherlock stated in his abnormally low voice.

“I don’t enjoy it. I like girls, Sherlock.”

“What difference does it make who touches you?”

“A lot,” John said as he shifted to get more comfortable as Sherlock laid on his chest.

“You haven’t decided yet,” Sherlock said with a sigh.

 “I’d rather not have a fag-master, to tell you the truth.”

Sherlock ran his fingers across John’s chest. “Why not me? I don’t ask much of you.”

“I don’t want everyone to think I’m gay.”

“They won’t,” Sherlock said, tracing John’s sternum with his finger tips. “The others run you ragged.”

“It should settle down once I’ve chosen.”

“It won’t.”

“And if I choose you? Then what?”

“I’d set you free.”

“No you wouldn’t,” John scoffed.

“Wouldn’t I?” Sherlock sat up and looked John directly in the eye. “John Watson, as I see it, you owe me nothing.” Sherlock looked down at his hands. “If anything, I should be your fag.”

John felt a pang of guilt for fighting with the only boy that had shown him an ounce of kindness since he entered the hallow halls of Harrow.

“I don’t mean to be cruel,” John tried to elaborate.

“You care too much about what others think, when I know if you’d just give me a chance-“

“You’re right; I care about what others think. Can’t we leave it at that?” John felt his skin become flush. “Can’t we just be friends?”

“I don’t have friends.”

“I wonder why,” John grumbled.

“All I ask is that you be my assistant. Help me take my mind off things.” Sherlock reached out and gripped John’s hand. He opened John’s hand and drew a SH on his palm with his fingernail. He closed John’s hand, brought his fist to his lips, and pressed a kiss to John’s knuckles.

John felt his heart flutter and he quickly pulled his hand away. “I’m not gay,” he choked out.

Sherlock straddled his thighs. “Haven’t you ever been curious? Wondered what it might be like?” Sherlock asked as he ran his hands up and under John’s undershirt. John shook his head but he’d been wondering what it would be like to touch Sherlock for weeks.

Sherlock’s firm arse kept brushing up against his crotch. John licked his lips and furrowed his brows. He narrowed his gaze in on Sherlock’s groin. John rubbed the tips of his fingers together as he thought it through.

John reached out slowly and barely pressed the pads of his fingers to Sherlock’s clothed erection. Sherlock let out a low erotic moan which startled John and made him worry about the door once more.

Sherlock quickly undid his zip, fished out his cock, and exposed himself for John.

“Touch it, please.”

John stared, wide eyed at the other boy’s penis. This went well beyond what John was comfortable with. John felt filthy for being so turned on. He was convinced it was the thrill of possibly being caught with another boy that had him going.

John’s breath hitched when he felt Sherlock’s smooth skin between his fingertips. He cupped his hand around Sherlock’s shaft and held him for a moment. John’s heart was pounding in his ears and his mouth was completely dry.

Sherlock rolled his hips forward and thrust into John’s hand. John watched in a daze as Sherlock pumped in and out of his loose grip. Sherlock closed his eyes and bit at his lower lip. He grabbed John’s hand with his own and steadied him as he started sliding in and out of his fist faster.

John could feel himself poking Sherlock through his thin trousers and Sherlock was definitely taking note. He pointedly rubbed his arse against John’s bulge, causing John to squirm.

The throbbing ache became too much to bear and John pleaded for him to stop. Sherlock took pity on him and held still on his lap. John caught his breath and winced.

“Come with me,” Sherlock panted.

“Where?” John asked with a grimace.

“Orgasm.”

“Oh,” John snorted a laugh and covered his face with his hand.

Sherlock let out a breathless laugh. “Idiot,” he said, shaking his head. Sherlock leaned down and John met his lips with his own. John ran his tongue over Sherlock’s full bottom lip, before dragging it into his mouth.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut and he let out a content sigh.

John drew in a sharp breath as Sherlock pulled away and started aggressively trying to rip his trousers off.

“Hold on,” John said, smacking his hands away. “Let me.” John couldn’t imagine what the lads would say if they saw the crotch of his trousers had been ripped out after he’d spent the night in Sherlock’s room.

John had barely gotten his zip down before Sherlock started sliding his hand down the front of his pants. John curled his toes and felt his heart race as Sherlock began groping him without any sort of barrier.

He quickly released John from the confines of his pants and gripped him firmly.

When their cocks met for the first time, the feeling was electric. Sherlock held them together and rubbed up against him with wonderful friction.

John lay with his arms above his head, cursing, and writhing. He had never been so horny in his life; he thought he was going to die of sheer elation. Then Sherlock’s lips met his at the right moment and John was certain he’d died and gone to heaven.

He snogged Sherlock fiercely, gripped his bare arse, and guided him forward. John spread his legs further and thrust up into Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock’s breathing became heavy and ragged; his pumping became more and more erratic.

He stopped suddenly and John watched as a stream of cum oozed out of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock let out a shocked gasp as if he’d had a religious experience. He looked down at John and blinked a few times.

John went into shock as Sherlock bent over and wrapped his lips around his cock. John’s brain went numb. He’d never felt so much pleasure at once before. It was borderline painful.

Sherlock’s mouth was warm, wet, and beautiful. John felt the very life sucked out of him as Sherlock sucked him off. He was euphoric in a matter of seconds and not long after he was beginning to feel an intense orgasm building.

“Sherlock!” he screeched as he gripped Sherlock’s shoulders. John jerked his hips up, Sherlock gagged, and the door swung wide open.

John scrambled to conceal himself, Sherlock spat out a wad of semen, and Anderson, the house prefect, would forever be haunted by the image of Sherlock Holmes giving John Watson head.


	4. The Virgin: Teenlock Mystrade

Greg had never been with a bloke that wanted _it_ without kissing. Greg couldn’t say he was heartbroken that the pouf didn’t want to lock lips, but kissing would have at least eased the awkwardness.

Greg placed his hands in his back pockets and waited for Mycroft to make the first move.

“Well?” he asked after an uncomfortably long silence. Mycroft dropped to his knees in front of him and Greg felt his heart skip a beat. He really didn’t think the kid was serious.

He could tell he was nervous and a bit drunk. Greg’s conscience tried to pipe up, but he suppressed it in order to help Mycroft undo his belt. Once he was free, he grabbed the back of Mycroft’s head, and guided him forward.

The blow job was sloppy at best. Greg had had far better, but something about Mycroft’s virgin status made it much more special. Everyone else he’d been with were massive slags and Greg had to go through hell to find someone ready, willing, and virgin.

It was Greg’s birthday present to himself, even though his birthday was three months ago. He’d always wanted to try out a virgin male. Unfortunately he’d only get one go at it and he was fairly certain he wouldn’t be calling on Mycroft again after it was said and done.

The boy had a strange name and a fitting personality. Greg had never met such an uptight prick. Of course, Mycroft was a public schoolboy, so it made sense he was a bit neurotic. Greg hardly recognized him without his uniform; the boy looked like he was born in a three piece suit. The guy was trying too hard, with his button down shirt and pressed trousers. He looked like he was going out on a real date, instead of sucking some bloke off behind the bleachers of a deserted football stadium.

He’d obviously never had a drink or a smoke in his life. After two beers he was thoroughly sloshed. Greg couldn’t help but laugh at the sour look on Mycroft’s face as he drank. He was eager to impress Greg with his ‘bad-boy’ attitude and willing to try anything to make himself look cool.

It bewildered Greg when he refused to kiss him, though. He thought Mycroft of all people would want the moment to be ‘special’. Greg felt slightly dejected when he pushed him away, but all was forgiven when he dropped to his knees.

Greg held Mycroft’s head close, not wanting to expose himself to the cold night’s air. He closed his eyes and tried to enjoy himself, but he felt distracted and slightly anxious.

He winced as one of Mycroft’s teeth made contact with his sensitive skin.

“Oi, watch it,” Greg said with a grimace. Mycroft startled and pulled away. “Bloody teeth.”

“Sorry,” Mycroft said with a gulp. Greg looked down to see his eyes were watering.

Greg let out a heavy sigh, “Well don’t cry about it.” Which prompted Mycroft to burst into tears. “Oh God,” Greg said, looking around. “What if the police were to come and see you on your knees crying? I’d be sent to prison!” Greg stuffed himself back into his pants. “Stand up,” he said, grabbing Mycroft by the arm.

Mycroft stood on shaking legs and wiped the tears from his eyes.

“You’re obviously not ready. Don’t know what I was thinking,” Greg said as he zipped up his jeans and did up his belt.

“I am ready,” Mycroft sniffled.

“You won’t even kiss. What bloke doesn’t kiss? I mean-“

Mycroft lunged forward, grabbed Greg’s face, and shoved his tongue into his mouth. They stumbled backwards until Greg’s back hit the chain-link fence.

Mycroft clutched Greg’s jacket in his fists and tugged him closer. Greg felt his spine melt, followed by a crushing guilt.

He knew Mycroft’s desperation. He was reminded very much of himself. He wanted to grow up too fast; be filled and be over with it. Greg lost his virginity to the wrong man, at the wrong time, in the wrong way and it ruined sex for himself forever.

“Stop,” Greg shoved Mycroft away and immediately walked away. Mycroft stood in shock as Greg rounded the gate and walked past him on the other side of the fence. Greg shoved his hands in his coat pockets and refused to look Mycroft in the eye. “You deserve better.”

“I knew you wouldn’t go through with it,” Mycroft spat. “So what was this? Some kind of joke? Did you want to see how far you could push me?”

“Look, you don’t need to go losing your virginity to a prick like me,” Greg started walking away once more and Mycroft followed him. Mycroft ran his fingers along the gate.

“On the contrary, you are _just_ the person for a lad like me to lose my virginity to.”

“How do you figure?” Greg stopped in his tracks and turned towards Mycroft. Mycroft laced his fingers through the chain-linked fence and leaned forward.

“After we’re through I never have to see you again,” he said with a devilish gleam in his eyes.

Greg bit his bottom lip, looked toward the ground, and shuffled the loose dirt with his foot. “Wouldn’t you rather have your first time be with someone you love? Or at least like?”

“So, suddenly you’re a gentleman now?”

“I just don’t want you making the same mistakes I did.”

“When you were my age? All of five months ago,” Mycroft sneered.

“I was thirteen.”

“Good for you,” Mycroft said with a sigh. “I’m not your therapist. I’m just another nameless shag. A face in the masses. I don’t know why you can’t go through with it.”

“You’re drunk, underage, and-“

“Willing to lie on my back and take it. Now, get over your big bad self and bugger me already.”

Greg felt a rush of panic as Mycroft scaled the fence and hopped in front of him. He didn’t realize how tall the boy was until then.

“I don’t want any trouble,” Greg said, putting up his hands.

“Then let’s try this again. I went out of my way to set up this meeting. I’m not leaving until I get what I came for.”

Greg made a break for it. He ran as fast as his legs would carry him, out into an open field of tall grass. He constantly looked over his shoulder, searching for Mycroft who had vanished into the grass.

Greg stopped to catch his breath and began turning in circles, searching for Mycroft. Greg ran his hands through his hair and breathed a sigh of relief, only to be tackled to the ground moments later.

“You’re mad!” Greg screamed as Mycroft mounted him and pinned his hands to his chest.

“I’ll pay you!”

“I’m not your whore!”

“Not yet you’re not,” Mycroft pulled down the zip of Greg’s coat, pushed it off his shoulders, and hitched up his shirt. He ran his hand up Greg’s chest and fiddled with his right nipple between his thumb and forefinger like a radio dial, trying to tune him into the mood.

He leaned forward and tried to claim Greg’s lips, but Greg turned his head away and refused to give in. Mycroft latched on to his neck and sucked vigorously; leaving a sizeable mark. He let go with a pop and Greg felt a tingling sensation begin to manifest itself in his groin.

If he wasn’t so terrified he’d have been extremely turned on, having a boy force himself upon him. He didn’t know what to make of the situation.

Mycroft went to work, unzipping Greg’s jeans, working his hand inside his pants to grab a firm hold of Greg’s cock. Greg was beginning to forget why he’d run away in the first place. This was thrilling and wrong, but it felt oh so right. He unintentionally bucked up into Mycroft’s fist and let out a small moan. What Mycroft lack in oral skill, he made up for in dexterity. The boy had obviously spent countless nights wanking himself to sleep.

Mycroft started working him harder and Greg was so close it hurt. He started babbling incoherently and panting, “God, oh God, yes.”

Greg licked his lips and clamped his eyes shut. He felt on fire as Mycroft started jacking him off rapidly.

He was right on the verge of a glorious orgasm, he was all but singing Mycroft’s praises, when suddenly, Mycroft stopped and grabbed him by the balls. Greg nearly screamed out in agony, he clenched his teeth and hissed.

“Come on!” he shouted.

Mycroft quickly went back to giving Greg the best hand-job of his life and Greg became deeply relaxed.

He felt his muscles begin to tense once more. His hips began levitating on their own. His cock was completely free of his pants and exposed to the freezing wind but he couldn’t feel a thing, he was so overheated.

Greg began to sweat and whimper as he felt another orgasm building.

 _“Please,”_ he whispered. Mycroft sped up and Greg was almost at the grand finale, he was infinitesimally close to the best orgasm of his life, and he could feel every square inch of his body begging for release.

This time Mycroft let go completely. Greg slammed his fists against the ground and sat up.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” he screamed with a shrill squeak. Mycroft laughed maliciously and Greg glared into his eyes.

“I could do this all night,” he teased.

“Yeah, my bloody balls are going to explode in the sack if you don’t finish what you started.”

“Bugger me,” Mycroft said with a wry smile.

“Alright, you want it so bad,” Greg shoved him over and Mycroft landed on his back with a thud, knocking the wind out of him. With every ounce of his being, Greg wanted to fuck the cocky bastard right then and there. But something about the look in Mycroft’s eyes when he pushed him to the ground made him feel like a dirty rotten pervert.

If only for a moment, Mycroft’s eyes softened, looking up at Greg. The moonlight added a small twinkle to the boy’s eyes. He really wasn’t all that bad looking. In fact, Greg kind of liked his freckles. They made him look more vulnerable.

He was a boy that needed protecting. He needed someone to look out for him: a tough guy like Greg. Or at least that’s what Greg thought.

“Dinner,” Greg said, drawing up on to his knees. Mycroft gave him a queried look. “After we’re done here, you’re buying me dinner.”

“Like a date?” Mycroft asked with a bewildered look.

“Yeah, only in reverse. Now take your pants off, it’s freezing.”

Mycroft tentatively slid down his pants and trousers while Greg pulled a condom out of his wallet, tore it open, and rolled it over his prick.

“All the way,” Greg said looking at Mycroft’s trousers that were only drawn down to his knees.

“It’s cold.”

“Here,” Greg pulled off his coat and laid it out on the ground.

“Such a gentleman,” Mycroft chuckled.

“Shut up and get naked, ‘fore I go and change my mind,” Greg laughed. Mycroft removed his pants and folded them neatly in a stack beside him. Greg pulled a half-empty bottle of lube out of his pocket, gave it a shake, and popped open the cap.

“Sorry it’s a bit cold,” Greg warned after he applied a dab to his fingertips and pressed it to Mycroft’s entrance. Mycroft winced and tried to pull away. Greg pulled him back towards him and more on to the coat.

He worked a finger in and Mycroft let out a grunt.

“It’s tight,” Greg commented.

“No shit,” Mycroft said, gritting his teeth. “We should have done it before when I had an adequate buzz.”

“Sorry,” Greg muttered sheepishly. Greg rubbed some lube over his cock and worked himself in his hand until he was hard once more. “You ready?”

“Just get it over with,” Mycroft groaned as he rubbed his eyes.

Greg pulled Mycroft closer until Mycroft could wrap his legs around his torso. Greg lined himself and breathed in deeply as he started sinking in slowly. Mycroft tensed immediately. He dug his nails into the ground and bared his teeth.

“Should I stop?” Greg asked worriedly.

“Just...” Mycroft started squirming in pain. “Do it.”

Greg couldn’t help but think Mycroft was absolutely mad. “Helps if you hold your knees to your chest,” Greg said as he helped Mycroft draw his knees up. “See,” Greg held back a smile, Mycroft looked like he was giving birth with his knees up to his chest; it didn’t help matters that he was doing Lamaze breathing.

“It isn’t funny, _Gregory,"_ Mycroft hissed.

“Sorry,” Greg snickered. Greg could feel his erection waning. He grabbed Mycroft by the shoulders and started grinding into him, trying to bring himself back into the moment.

Soon Greg was so caught up with getting off that he neglected Mycroft’s comfort and started drilling him. Greg was snapped out of his dream-like state when he felt Mycroft’s fingernails dig into his forearms.

Greg let out a pained hiss and Mycroft tightened his grip as Greg gave him another good thrust.

“Come on, babe, just a bit more,” Greg begged.

“Babe?” Mycroft asked with a squeak. Greg used the distraction to plough into him. “God, slow down,” Mycroft said with a grimace as Greg tightened his grip on his shoulders and pressed him further into the soft ground.

“Nnnrgh,” was all Greg could say in response. He could no longer form a coherent thought. His hips worked on auto-pilot. He couldn’t feel Mycroft’s sharp fingernails digging into his skin; in fact he couldn’t feel much of anything other than an intense fire in his groin, begging to be extinguished.

He passed the point of no return and started moaning like a distressed whale as he reached the big ‘O’. He felt his white hot release fill the condom and was quick to pull out.

Greg stood on his knees, wavering back and forth. He looked at Mycroft with glazed over eyes.

“That’s it?” Mycroft asked with a cocked brow. He pulled out a pocket-watch and flipped it open. “All of four minutes.”

Greg ran his hands through his hair and sucked in a few deep breaths. “Yeah.”

Mycroft sat up and began putting himself back together.

“Some experience,” he said with a huff.

“Dinner?” Greg asked as he stuffed himself back into his pants.

“I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea,” Mycroft said as he returned Greg’s coat to him.

“I’ll let you top next time,” Greg said with a charming smile.

“Chinese sound good?” Mycroft reached out his hand and helped Greg to his feet.

The two walked off, arm in arm.


	5. Completely Heterosexual: Drunklock Johnlock

John leaned over Sherlock’s shoulder and narrowed his eyes in on the photograph that Sherlock had pulled out of his stack of papers.

“She looks familiar,” John said, squinting to get a better look.

_Where have I seen her before?_

“She’s a porn-star, John.”

“Ah,” John said smacking his lips together. He stood up straight and grabbed his teacup off the side table. “So...” John said, taking an awkward sip. “What’s so special about this one?”

Sherlock pulled up a website and John shielded his eyes.

“Whoa,” he remarked.

“Like you haven’t seen it all before,” Sherlock reminded him.

“Not with another man in the room. That’s bizarre, Sherlock. Friends don’t...”

Sherlock looked up at him with doe eyes. John gave him an odd look. He wasn't sure if Sherlock had intended to look so innocent.

“Sit,” Sherlock said, motioning to the ottoman.

“I’d rather not.”

“I could use an extra set of eyes.”

“Send me a link then.”

“No, we have to view it together.”

“Why?”

“Don’t question my methods,” Sherlock said dismissively.

“Alright... but... no... none of that,” John said with an awkward cough.

“None of what?” Sherlock asked with furrowed brows.

“Just... never mind,” John blushed and put down his cup of tea once more. “I’d like to stand if you don’t mind.”

Sherlock clicked on the first video and John’s breath hitched in his throat.

“Concentrate, John.”

“Oh, I am,” John said, staring at the woman’s sizeable tits bouncing up and down on the screen. He found himself nodding along.

Sherlock started shifting uncomfortably and John glanced down without meaning to and noticed Sherlock was resting his hand on his pocket. John looked back to the screen and pretended not to notice.

_Was he?_

John glanced back down to see Sherlock was now stroking his pocket. John looked back up and stared at the screen with wide eyes.

_I’m watching porn with my best friend and he’s trying to have a wank. Wait... I’m watching PORN... with Sherlock... What’s wrong with me?_

John looked back down at Sherlock’s groin.

_God, could I just go two seconds without looking down at Sherlock’s crotch? I’m not gay, for Christ’s sake._

John went back to watching the straight porn.

“What am I supposed to be looking for?” John asked, clearing his throat. Sherlock shifted once more and rolled his shoulders back.

“You’ll know it when you see it.”

John watched Sherlock’s hand venture closer to the crotch of his trousers and slowly run back up his thigh. John found his eyes were glued to Sherlock’s package. He shook his head clear and tried to pay attention to the video.

John moistened his mouth and took in a deep breath.

“How much longer?” he asked, shifting on to a different foot.

“Thirty minutes,” Sherlock said with a long bored drawl.

John let out a small groan.

“I told you to take a seat,” Sherlock reminded him.

“I’m fine standing,” John said, discreetly shifting himself in his pants.

_I am NOT turned on by my flatmate._

John stared at the porn star’s tits to prove his point. Sherlock moved his hand and John’s eyes darted down to Sherlock’s lap.

_Shit!_

He cursed himself. Sherlock let out a small sigh and John gave up trying. He stared right at Sherlock’s crotch, trying to make out the outline of his prick underneath his black trousers. Curiosity got the better of him and he just had to know how big his was, for scientific purposes.

_Yeah, that’s not so perverted. What’s the harm of knowing how big your flatmate’s dick is? What am I saying? That’s beyond gay. I might as well ask him to whip it out so I can have an official measure._

Sherlock grimaced and let out a grunt. He sat up straight and slid the laptop further down his knees. John leaned forward to get a better look and could see Sherlock tapping his pocket with his forefinger as he stared intently at the screen. John stepped to the side of the chair to get a better angle.

Sherlock slid his hand into his pocket and John’s mouth with dry. There was no hiding his unrelenting gaze on Sherlock’s groin. Sherlock started fiddling inside his pocket and John felt his cock twitch.

John reached down and felt his own member stiffen in his hand. He gave it a quick twice over and debated going further. It seemed Sherlock was headed in that direction, the way he was digging around his pocket.

Just then, Sherlock pulled the pen out of his pocket and held it up in the air. “Hold this,” he said, just as the back of his hand made contact with John’s groin. John let out a shocked gasp.

_Oh God, abort abort!_

John turned away. “Well, I think I’ve seen enough.”

“John,” Sherlock turned his head to see John concealing himself with both hands.

_I should have known a pen was poking him in the leg, not his prick. God, how could I be so stupid?_

“Are you alright?”

John flushed bright red. “Fine,” he said with a squeak. Sherlock shut the laptop.

“See anything?”

John shook his head.

“The ring on her finger-“ Sherlock started.

“Okay that’s nice, Sherlock,” John said, trying to flee the scene.

“John!” Sherlock shouted as John ran out the door and up the stairs.

John slammed his bedroom door shut and locked it behind him. He fumbled with his belt and zip. John released himself from his pants and started wanking out in the open. He opened his mouth and allowed his eyes to roll upward, into the back of his head. He let out a heavy sigh when the pressure started letting up.

John jolted when he heard a knock at the door.

“Go away,” he said, pressing his back against the door.

“John, I need you.”

“Not now!” he shouted.

“John, this is important.”

“Five minutes!”

“You know it takes you at least fifteen.”

“Leave me alone!” John stopped for a moment. “And that’s weird!”

“And this isn’t?” Sherlock let out an aggravated sigh. “Hurry up!”

John slammed the back of his head against the door and shoved himself back into his pants, still very erect. He pulled up his zip, unlocked the door, and stepped out.

Sherlock stood at the door, dressed in his Belstaff coat with John’s shooting jacket in his hand. He caught Sherlock looking down at the prominent tent in his trousers. Sherlock lifted one brow and kept staring.

“You could have finishedm” he said with a shrug as he shoved John’s coat into his hand.

“Eyes up here,” John reminded him as he shrugged his coat over his shoulders.

Sherlock's eyes darted to John’s face.

“Shall we?” Sherlock asked, motioning to the stairs.

“Give it a moment.”

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the banister and a let out a sigh. John stood with his hands on his hips and looked to the ceiling, willing his erection away. He glanced over to see Sherlock’s gaze had returned to his groin.

“Sherlock!” he shouted and Sherlock’s eyes snapped away.

“Can we go now?” Sherlock groaned. “They’ll be opening soon; we have to get there before the rush.”

“Who’s they?” John asked, taking a tentative step down the stairs.

“The strip club.”

John stopped dead in his tracks. “What type?”

“The type where young desperate women strip for money. Now come on!” Sherlock shouted, ushering John down the stairs.

“Yeah but topless? Full-nude? How much stripping-“

Just then, Mrs Hudson appeared at the bottom of the steps. John's eyes went wide but thankfully Sherlock stepped in front of him.

“Change for a twenty?” Sherlock asked, pulling out his wallet.

“I’m not supporting your dirty habits,” Mrs Hudson said, looking to both of them. “It’s degrading to women,”  she said, crossing her arms.

“Don’t be silly, Mrs Hudson. These women aren’t being degraded! How could they be? They’re already at their lowest!” Sherlock said as he opened the door and held it for John. “Don’t wait up!” he shouted as he slammed the door shut.

“You didn’t answer my question,” John said, once they were out of Mrs Hudson’s earshot.

Sherlock hailed a cab, opened the door for John, and allowed him to slide in first.

“Drink this,” Sherlock said withdrawing a flask from his coat pocket. “Careful,” Sherlock said, eyeing the cabbie. John opened the flask and his eyes immediately watered as the volatile substance singed his nose hairs. He gagged at the mere smell of it.

“Go on,” Sherlock urged, giving his arm a shove.

John took a swig and managed to get it down without retching. He regretted not asking what it was until after he'd taken a drink of it. Sherlock stared at him intently and waited.

“You’ll need more than that. Here,” he said, helping John tip it back.

“What is it?”

“Absinthe. At least... it was.”

“What?” John asked as Sherlock forced him to down another swig. John suddenly felt light headed and started sinking into his seat.

“There, that’s good,” Sherlock said taking a small sip for himself. “Don’t worry, it’s completely harmless and you should remain relatively lucid.”

John’s eyes went wide as the world started to turn slowly under his feet, the street lights became a blur, and everything became set in slow motion. Sherlock’s lips began moving but the words were so muddled they hardly made a sound.

John leaned forward and nearly fell over as the cab came to an abrupt halt. From then on, everything started moving at Mach 5. Sherlock dragged him into the club, past the velvet ropes, into the dim light, down the hall, and into a room with music, lights, and half-naked women that were shaking their money makers.

Sherlock kept introducing him as the Doctor and saying it was his birthday. John raised his hand to correct him; his birthday had come and gone already, but Sherlock kept interrupting him.

Sherlock sat John in a chair and introduced him to Lola who introduced herself to John’s lap.

“So what does the Doctor like?” Lola asked in a tantalizing voice.

“Space travel,” John said with a drunken slur. Lola laughed nervously and looked back to Sherlock who was scanning the scene.

“What does he like?” she asked Sherlock.

“Breasts,” Sherlock said nonchalantly. Lola dropped her top and John looked at her, utterly speechless. John kept his hands to his sides as Lola, if that was her real name, started grinding against him.

“That one,” Sherlock pointed across the club. “Have that one meet us in the red room.”

“Of course, Mr Holmes.”

Lola dismounted John’s lap and John let out a sad sigh. “Where’s she going?” John asked, watching her walk away and out of his life. “I think I may have loved her.”

“She isn’t your type. I think you’ll find the next one more suitable to your tastes.” Sherlock reached out his hand and John allowed him to help him up out of the chair. John stumbled forward into Sherlock’s arms and used him for support as they walked to a room in the back of the club.

The first thing John noticed about the red room was that it was blue: blue rug, blue ceiling tiles, blue walls, blue furniture.

“Why’s it called the red room?” John asked, lying down on the bed. He sprawled out and instantly felt like nodding off.

“It’s a play on the red light district, now get up, she’ll be here any moment.” Sherlock explained just as John grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him on to the bed with him. “John, what are-“

John interrupted him with a kiss. He entwined his legs with Sherlock’s and made a tangled mess that Sherlock struggled to get out of as the prostitute made her way into the room.

 _“John,"_ Sherlock hissed. The woman looked intrigued with their vulnerable position. Sherlock pried John away and pinned him to the bed by his shoulders. “Join us,” Sherlock said breathlessly.

The woman had no reservations about shedding her clothing; when she got down to her knickers and started peeling them off, Sherlock stared at her with an unrelenting gaze. She slid them past her hips and Sherlock shouted, “Damnit!” as he slammed his fist into the mattress, right beside John’s head.

“Were you expecting something else?” She asked, mockingly.

“You may leave. I have no use for you,” Sherlock said, looking at her disappointedly.  

“I can see that,” she said, gathering her clothes. She slammed the door on her way out and Sherlock turned his attention to John.

“I thought I had it,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. “If it wasn’t for you and your... libido. We’d have-“

John drew Sherlock into a close embrace. “The door supervisor,” he whispered into Sherlock’s ear.

“John, that’s it!” Sherlock shouted as he tried to peel John off of him.

“Sex,” John groaned.

“Not now, John.” Sherlock said as he batted John’s hands away. John grabbed Sherlock’s hands and held them firmly.

“When?” He asked, staring deep into Sherlock’s eyes. He swore he could see the entire cosmos in that moment.

“You look thirsty,” Sherlock said, handing John the flask. “Have a drink.”

John obeyed and woke up in Sherlock’s bed with his pants around his ankles and three buttons missing on his shirt. He looked over to see Sherlock searching through the night stand. From what John could gather, they were about to engage in sex. John looked down to see he was likely going to be on the receiving end.

Sherlock withdrew a condom and started inspecting the packaging.

“You’ve never done this before,” John stated.

“When have I had the time?” Sherlock asked frantically tearing open the packet. He handed the condom over to him and John rolled it on to Sherlock’s cock.

“Is it going to hurt?”

“No,” Sherlock said looking down at him with confusion. “Oh for you! Yes, well... most likely. Especially if your anus isn’t...” Sherlock looked him over. “Do you need another drink?”

“Are you raping me?”

“Do I have your consent?”

John shrugged indecisively.

“I’m under the influence as well and therefore can’t be held accountable for my actions,” Sherlock said as he grabbed John by his thighs. “Don’t worry. I hear it’s just like riding a bicycle.” John gave him an odd look. “One that’s missing the seat of course.”

John snorted a laugh as Sherlock spit into his hand and lubed up his entrance.

“Any final words?” Sherlock asked.

“Tally ho?”

Sherlock lined himself up and began easing in slowly. John was surprised at how pleasant the sensation was. It was like a chilly feeling, working its way up his lower back. He shifted to open up more and allow more of Sherlock in.

John actively worked his anal muscles, clenching and relaxing. The only real pressure he felt was around his tight anus, but it soon subsided as Sherlock worked himself in and out. John relaxed and allowed his endorphins to work their magic.

His legs felt like jelly, wrapped around Sherlock’s torso. The looser he became, the more Sherlock was able to really enjoy himself. John rocked his hips against Sherlock to stimulate him further. He dug his fingertips into Sherlock hips and guided him where he wanted him.

John entered a zen-like state. He sunk into the mattress as Sherlock took him with slow deliberate thrusts.

“Mm,” John hummed. “You’re good at this.”

Sherlock responded with a grunt. The slow methodical motion of Sherlock’s hips crashing into his buttocks was enough to make John start to blank out. He never thought anal sex would feel so good. It felt as if a huge weight was being lifted off his shoulders.

John’s vision returned to him slowly and he revelled in the debauched look on Sherlock’s normally stoic face. His posh character completely dissolved as he buried his prick in John’s arse. John could have sworn he saw Sherlock actually enjoying himself for a moment.

Then John started really swearing. Sherlock had shifted his hips and the tip of Sherlock’s cock made first contact with his prostate. John wasn’t sure what to make of the new sensation. He was used to Sherlock pressing his buttons, just not that one in particular.

John tensed with every jolt of mixed signals that raced through his spine. He watched in wonder as come dribbled out of his prick and on to his belly. The stimulus was intense and unrelenting. Sherlock kept pressing deeper and harder against him; John thought he was going to burst.

Sherlock let out a shocked gasp and his eyes went wide. John felt Sherlock’s cock twitch deep inside him.

“Did you _seriously_ just come inside me?” John asked, trying to keep a straight face.

Sherlock nodded slowly. His eyes were glazed over and his face was bright red. “I’m so sorry,” he said breathlessly.

John snorted a laugh. Sherlock pulled out and peeled off his come-filled rubber. He tied off the end and threw it over his shoulder, not caring where it landed.

He fell forward into John’s arms and fell fast asleep with his face pressed against John’s chest. John was awoken several times in the middle of the night by Sherlock’s snoring and constant stirring and thrashing in bed.

John woke up at noon with a splitting headache and dry throat. He cracked one eye open to see the figure of a man at the end of his bed. He looked down and saw he had both arms wrapped around Sherlock. It took John a moment to register what had happened and who the man in the room was.

“Sherlock,” John said with a throaty croak. Sherlock let out a loud groan and peeled himself from John’s chest, leaving behind a small puddle of drool.

Sherlock sat up and wavered slightly. He shook his head clear and looked towards his brother.

“What?” he asked with a sneer.

Mycroft smacked his lips together and lifted his eyebrows. “Well, I thought I'd come to congratulate you on another job well done. But I can see you’ve already had a little celebration of your own.”

Sherlock rubbed at his forehead. “We have the wrong man,” he said with an aggravated sigh.

“Yes, it appears your celebrations were a bit _premature._ ”

“Have you come just to ridicule me?” Sherlock asked as he attempted to make himself look half-way decent.

“I’m merely putting my hound back on the trail.” Mycroft looked between the two of them. “This time, don’t get sidetracked.”

“You gave me a pile of porn and told me to investigate a brothel. How did you think this was going to end?”


	6. Duct Tape: Whorelock Sherstrade

The money had to come from somewhere and with Sherlock’s inheritance being cut off by his meddling older brother, he was forced to find a career that suited him. How else was he supposed to fuel his coke addiction?

His 17.5% intravenous solution wasn’t cutting it. Sure it was enough to keep him relatively stable, but he could _really_ use a good hit. Especially after the last few evenings.

Fat, _morbidly fat_ , and putrid business men. They reminded him of his brother. Sherlock missed out on a good sum of money because of his pickiness. He’d raise his upper lip at anyone that displeased him. He was abrasive yet highly sought after in his field.

Business was slow which meant his standards would need to fall. Sherlock dreaded his potential clients. Oh how they bored him. Perhaps with a bit more blow he could manage, but his reserves were running low. He’d have to find the right John to maximize his profits.

Sherlock showed up for ‘work’ at least forty minutes late and ‘clocked-in’ with Angelo.

“You’re late,” Angelo reminded him.

“Tape,” Sherlock beckoned his hand for the roll of duct tape Angelo kept in his desk.

Angelo owned a Tapas bar in Soho and was kind enough to let Sherlock and some of the other lads turn tricks in the alleyway outside of his business. Of course Angelo got a twelve percent cut, but usually only took ten from Sherlock because hey it was Sherlock, come on, this guy ah! Ah? (As Angelo would always say) Sherlock could care less if Angelo liked him or not, but he did appreciate being able to keep more of his money.

Angelo also did a great deal of advertising for Sherlock. He knew exactly who was looking for a good time. Surprisingly Angelo had only been to jail twice in his life, Sherlock had expected that number to be a great deal larger, but then again, some people have all the luck.

“Army boys. Just came in. You know what they say about them, eh?” Angelo asked, lifting up his bushy eyebrows suggestively.

Sherlock let out a heavy sigh as he stepped behind the dressing screen. “I don’t need an Army man’s pay. He’ll have me the entire night and I’ll earn tuppence compared to a stock broker.”

“You had those men in last night.”

“Fat and balding isn’t my forte.”

Sherlock stripped out of his normal street clothes and pulled his street-walker clothes out of his bag. He let out a deep breath and tried to calm his nerves before using his teeth to tear off three strips of tape. He lined the pieces of tape up on the screen and got to work tucking his testicles into his inguinal canal.

He winced as he pulled back his penis to tuck into the cleft of his ass. He pulled the tape off the screen, strip by strip, and secured himself.

He gave it a quick test, a few wiggles of his hips, a hop up and down, and he was secure. Sherlock mulled through his panty options.

“Army,” he said with a heavy sigh. It didn’t look like he had much of a choice. Black lace it was. With a matching black bra and the little black Gucci battle dress. He pulled the straps over his shoulders and stepped out from behind the dressing screen.

Angelo rushed over to help him zip up the back of his dress and hand off a tube of lipstick. Sherlock took one look at the colour and handed it back to him.

“Pink,” Sherlock scoffed. “We’re at war, man!”

“My apologies,” Angelo said, quickly handing him the proper shade of blood-red lip colour.

“Brush,” Sherlock said, holding out his other hand.

“Sorry.”

“Pay attention,” Sherlock hissed. He gritted his teeth and tried to concentrate at the task at hand. He began applying the lipstick, using a small brush to even out the colour on his lips. “How many?”

“Twelve,” Angelo said, handing him the foundation primer.

Sherlock smoothed primer over his face with skilled precision. “Regiment?”

“Fusiliers.”

“Infantry,” Sherlock said with a groan. “Tell me at least one of them is an officer.” Angelo handed him the foundation and Sherlock looked at him through the mirror to see a glimmer in his eyes. “They’re all officers,” Sherlock smirked. “Well then. That changes everything.”

After a considerable amount of concealer, some blush, a little eye-shadow, some mascara, and just enough eye-liner, Sherlock was battle-ready. He looked at himself in the mirror and hardly recognized himself. Good.

He took one look at his hair and started growling.

“I haven’t the time to straighten it. It will have to stay down. How do I look?” Sherlock turned around and Angelo went to open his mouth to speak. “Don’t answer that.” Sherlock packed his bag and stashed it in the corner of Angelo’s office. “Niece or daughter?”

“Let’s go with niece.”

Sherlock nodded in agreement. Now he only wished he looked a touch older. It would have helped to pull back his hair but he didn’t have a chance keeping it up without straightening his curls. Then again if the officers were perverted enough they wouldn’t care about numbers. If they were drunk enough he could get away with a lot more.

Sherlock took one step into the dining room and was met with the sight of the soldiers occupying half the restaurant. They were in high spirits, laughing, and having their third round of drinks.

They brought girls with them. Angelo didn’t tell him they brought _girls._ Sherlock spotted a few empty laps and noticed a few glances coming his way.

Angelo clamped his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and ushered him to the table. Sherlock adopted the shy school girl stance and hesitantly approached the table of rowdy men. Sherlock tried to act as nervous as possible, although he was fairly disinterested in the bunch.

“My neice, my pride and joy. Now if you need anything, anything at all,” Angelo gave them a wink. “You just go and ask Sherly here.”

Sherlock cringed at the diminutive of his name. Angelo left Sherlock to fend for himself as he returned to his office. Sherlock looked for the tell-tale signs of attraction. He had several takers, licking their lips, pointing their feet in his direction, pretending not to look when he was looking.

Then he noticed one man staring at him with his mouth half open. He was completely taken by Sherlock and did little to cover his attraction to him. Sherlock went right up to the man, took a seat on his lap, and ran a hand down his face.

“And you are?” Sherlock said in his most alluring feminine voice.

“John,” he said with a gulp.

 _How ironic,_ Sherlock thought. “I just _love_ army doctors.”

John cocked an eyebrow. “How’d you-“

“Your forehead.”

“My forehead?”

“You lack the square and roughened forehead of an infantryman yet you’re in an infantry unit. So what does a man with your stature and IQ do in an infantry unit?” Sherlock cleared his throat when John gave him a stupid look. “Just an observation.”

“No, you’re absolutely right,” John said with a smile. “That’s amazing.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do people normally say?”

“Stop yapping and suck my dick.”

John laughed inappropriately and Sherlock knew he had him.

“How long are you here for?” Sherlock asked knowing he had ten days left on his R&R going by the length of the stubble on his chin.

“Ten days.”

“You have a hotel room?”

John nodded. Sherlock could tell he was without a roommate, which made things much easier.

“Shall we?” he asked, dismounting John’s lap. He gave John a hand up and saw just how short he was. Sherlock was nearly a head and shoulders taller than him which would definitely make kissing interesting. Sherlock regretted not wearing flats as he led John outside.

John’s mates whistled and cheered him on as he left but John’s eyes were locked on Sherlock as if he was the only person in the world.

“Smoke?” Sherlock asked, turning towards him. John shook his head. “Good, it’s bad for you.”

John smiled.

“Tell me about yourself, John.”

“What would you like to know?”

Sherlock truly knew everything he needed to know already. John hadn’t had a date in three months, couldn’t keep a girlfriend for more than three dates, had never paid for sex in his life, had a considerable amount of money saved up, and no one to spend it on.

Sherlock would make sure to remedy that situation. Money was meant to be spent.

“Where did you go to school?” Sherlock asked as they went in search of a cab. “Uni, I mean,” he corrected himself.

John looked Sherlock over. “You’re still in school aren’t you?” he asked with a disappointed tone.

“No,” It wasn’t a lie either. “I’m older than you think.”

“Eighteen?”

“Okay... I’m exactly as old as you think.”

John laughed heartily. “Good because I really thought you were fifteen.”

_One year off of legal. He believes it’d be just his luck to end up with a minor. Which could only mean he’s intent on going all the way tonight._

Sherlock stepped into the street and hailed a cab. He held the door open for John and let him slide in. John gave the directions to the cabbie and sat with his hands in his lap, wringing his wrists, as they drove the unnecessarily long way to the hotel.

“Nervous?” Sherlock asked after an uncomfortably long silence. Before John could answer, Sherlock scooted closer to him. “Don’t be.”

When Sherlock leaned forward and captured his lips with his own. He was surprised at how naturally John kissed him back, as if they’d kissed a thousand times before. Sherlock pulled away abruptly.

“What’s wrong?” John asked worriedly.

“Nothing,” Sherlock said, now wringing his hands as well.

He expected sloppy, desperate, horny snogging. Not whatever _that_ was. John sat up straighter in his seat. Sherlock was going to lose him if he didn’t act soon.

They reached the Soho hotel, exited the cab, and made their way to the front entrance. “Thanks,” he said as John held the door open for him.

They trekked up the stairs to John’s room. John turned around every once in a while to see if Sherlock was still following him.

They reached the door and John slid in his key card. He opened the door and Sherlock started hunting down a bottle of liquor.

“Gin,” he said, thinking out loud as he grasped the bottle in his hand. “May I?”

“Go ahead,” John said, shutting the door. “Would you-“ Sherlock took three healthy sized gulps and placed the bottle back on the table. “Like a glass...” John finished.

“Let’s get on with it.”

“With what?”

“You know what,” Sherlock said reaching out for John’s hand. John allowed Sherlock to pull him closer. “Two hundred quid.”

“What?” John asked wide-eyed.

“What do you mean what?” Sherlock searched John’s eyes for an answer.

“I mean what!” John shouted with a squeak.

“For oral sex?”

“Two hundred quid for oral sex?” John asked dumbly.

“I’ll have you know that’s relatively cheap.”

“Y-You... you want me to pay you for sex? Like a prostitute?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said as if it wasn’t blatantly obvious.

“You’re a prostitute,” John said with a shocked gasp.

“What did you think I was?”

“Not a prostitute,” John said, shaking his head. He took a seat on the edge of the bed and held his head in his hands. “This is very not good.”

“What difference does it make? You were going to bring me to your hotel room and have your way with me either way. This way I get some compensation.”

“I’d never. Not with a prostitute.”

“Fine, if prostitution isn’t your thing, consider me a call girl, a whore, any name you’d like if it helps you sleep better at night.”

“I’m such an idiot.”

“There will be time for self pity later. Now if you don’t mind...” Sherlock said, looking towards John’s crotch.

John pulled out his wallet and started counting his money. Sherlock licked his lips greedily.

“Here,” John said holding out a wad of cash. Sherlock took it and started counting. He didn’t mention he gave him three hundred not two hundred.

“Go,” John said, pointing to the door.

“What?” For once, Sherlock was utterly confused.

“You don’t have to do _that._ Just go.”

“Suit yourself,” Sherlock said walking to the door. He placed a hand on the door handle and thought. “I’m clean you know.”

“I don’t care. If you need money that bad, I’m not going to take advantage of you.”

Sherlock looked to the money in his hand. He gave John one last look, opened the door slowly, and stepped outside.

 

* * *

“Not you again.”

“Fancy running into you here, Detective Sergeant Lestrade,” Sherlock said, concealing a tube of lipstick in his back pocket.

“What’s that?” He asked, putting his hands on his hips.

“What’s what?” Sherlock asked, innocently.

“This is a crime scene, Sherlock. Need I remind you-“

“There’s no need, I’ve heard it all before. You might as well arrest me now,” Sherlock said, holding out his wrists.

“You know something,” Lestrade said plainly.

“Of course. But wouldn’t it look better if you hauled me off in hand cuffs? It would make the public sleep better tonight, knowing the vicious woman killer is in police custody,” Sherlock said sardonically.

Lestrade ran his tongue over his bottom row of teeth and waited a moment. “Are you done?”

“It isn’t a man.”

“Go on.”

“The foot prints are size twelve and a half, correct?” Sherlock said, pacing the floor.

“Yeah.”

“However the imprint of the toe is heavier than the heel. The shoe was two sizes too large. She was walking on her toes which accounts for the awkward gait as well. Now these shoes were well worn, they belonged to someone close to her, a husband perhaps? One she was trying to frame?” Sherlock looked deep into Lestrade’s eyes. “You have a lead, don’t you? All signs point to this man, only he has a solid alibi, otherwise you would have arrested him long ago. And with every murder more evidence is being stacked against him.” Sherlock stood up straighter. “It’s the American senator. I knew it!”  

“Sherlock, stay away from the press,” Lestrade said, looking towards the floor. “They’ll have my head for this if they knew I was working with a... you.”

“You’re free this weekend,” Sherlock stated with a smirk.

“Piss off, you know I’m married.”

“And your wife is away visiting your mother-in-law with the kids.” Sherlock gave him his best pleading look. “Come on, you know you want to.”

“You need a new hobby.”

“Would you rather I go looking for it somewhere else?”

“You should be paying _me_.”

“Doesn’t my brother pay you enough?”

“To keep you clean, yes. Not for _this_.”

“You love it,” Sherlock said in a low raspy tone.

“Happy Birthday, by the way.”

Sherlock let out a low growl and Lestrade chuckled.

“The big three O.”

“Don’t remind me.” Sherlock groaned.

“Come on by later, we’ll celebrate.”

“I don’t think I want to now,” Sherlock said as Lestrade laughed and drew him close.

Lestrade was a forceful kisser. He knew exactly what he wanted and he had experience to back it up. He cupped Sherlock’s arse in his hands and Sherlock used his leverage to pin Lestrade against the wall.

“Concealing evidence, are we?” Lestrade asked, pulling out the tube of lipstick and holding it up for Sherlock to see.

“That’s mine,” Sherlock hissed.

Lestrade opened it up and twisted the bottom. “Really? The shade doesn’t suit you.” Lestrade closed the tube and placed it in his pocket for safe keeping. “Now be a good boy and run along.”

Sherlock felt a flutter of excitement, dashing out of the window and on to the fire escape. He ran down the stairs and slid down the ladder, knowing tonight was going to be special.

There was no greater joy in life, Sherlock thought, than using Mycroft’s men against him. Sure Lestrade kept him mostly clean, but the man was a complete and utter pervert. Sherlock just loved to pull the wool over Mycroft’s eyes. How could Mycroft _not_ see their relationship was anything but professional?

Sherlock went through his entire wardrobe, trying to find something suitable. He hated to be overdressed for such occasions, yet he knew the outfit made the man.

He reached the back of his wardrobe and found an article of clothing half hanging off its hanger. He ran his hand over the smooth black spandex dress and wondered to himself why he’d kept it all these years.

It was the only dress he’d kept and while he tried his hardest to convince himself he wasn’t hanging on to it for sentimental reasons, he couldn’t bear to part with the silly thing. It reminded him far too much of John, which was reason enough to toss it in the bin and be done with it.

John didn’t know what he’d missed out on. Twelve years later and Sherlock was still sore from being turned away. Now Sherlock was going to take out all his frustrations on Lestrade.

From the moment Sherlock met Lestrade, it didn’t take much convincing to get him to sleep with him. The man’s wife couldn’t possibly pleasure him like Sherlock could; which was a real shame because Lestrade was fantastic in bed. He knew just how to use his lips, hips, and finger tips.

Sherlock shuddered at the thought and hurried to get into his outfit de jour. He left it up to Lestrade to deduce how the evening was going to go based on his choice of clothing. Sherlock didn’t often wear a simple hoodie and jeans, but the effect was nothing short of magical. He was certain Lestrade would pick up on his intentions immediately.

Sherlock rushed to beat Lestrade home. He drew up his hood to hide his face, hopped the fence, and made his way around the back to climb the shed and enter his unlocked bedroom window.

He set about rooting around Lestrade’s things, stuffing anything valuable in his pockets. He was frantic, knowing Lestrade would be home at any moment. He began regretting not planning it out better the moment Lestrade entered the front door.

Sherlock looked to the open window and debated his mode of escape. He remained dead silent and listened to Lestrade’s footsteps downstairs. He waited for Lestrade’s footfalls to transition from carpet to tile before swinging open the door and thundering down the stairs.

In a matter of seconds, Sherlock was brought to the ground. Lestrade breathed heavily down the back of his neck as he searched his pockets. Lestrade cursed under his breath as he pulled his wife’s jewellery out of Sherlock’s pockets.

Once Sherlock’s pockets were clear and the evidence was lined up on the floor, Sherlock wished he’d escaped. Lestrade dug his knee into Sherlock’s thigh and pressed the palm of his hand against Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock let out a sigh as Lestrade began lecturing and yelling. He was rolled on to his back and Lestrade forced him to look him in the eye as he continued to chide him. Sherlock was suddenly bored by the situation he’d created for himself. He hadn’t expected a warm welcome but the speech was getting quite lengthy and repetitive.

Sherlock reached out to place a hand on Lestrade’s cheek. Lestrade’s skin was flush and he was breathing heavily through his nose.

“Why can’t you just...” Lestrade started. He shook his head in defeat and grasped Sherlock’s hand. “Why?” was all he could say. He looked into Sherlock’s eyes and let out a heavy sigh. “This isn’t a game, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked away and stared at a fixed point in the room. Here he was, wanting to play cops and robbers, and now it looked as if he wasn’t going to be handcuffed to the bed after all.

“You’re lucky I’m not going to press charges,” Lestrade said as he stood up. Sherlock felt the corner of his lips tug into a smirk. “You’re not getting off that easy.”

Sherlock sat up and hid his smile.

Sherlock could see the gears turning in Lestrade’s head, plotting his punishment. Sherlock licked his lips in anticipation. He knew it had to be good going by the way Lestrade was pacing. Even he was unsure of himself. Lestrade scratched at his chin and looked to Sherlock briefly.

“Stand up,” he said after a long deliberation. Sherlock obeyed and soon he was toe to toe with the detective. He searched Lestrade’s face for a hint of what he was in for.

There were no whips and chains in their relationship, no matter how much Sherlock desperately wanted to be beaten to a bloody pulp and fucked into the floorboards. Lestrade wouldn’t allow so much as a scratch on Sherlock’s pretty little face. What would big brother say?

Secretly Sherlock wanted Mycroft to find out; walk right in on them in the middle of the act. It was the only way that big fat oaf would find out, because Lestrade was a brilliant mind-fucker. And perhaps that’s what thrilled Sherlock the most.

The man could touch him with his breath, move him with words, and turn him on without laying a hand on him. It wasn’t fair to have so much sex confined in one solidly built man. And that he had to share that man with his ungrateful wife was torturous.

Of course Sherlock acted out against Lestrade’s wife; stole her jewellery, destroyed her things, and even went as far as using her perfume while she was away. Any attack against his wife made Lestrade seethe with rage, but it almost always made the sex that much better. If he didn’t enrage Lestrade, Sherlock would end up with a closeted man wrapped around him begging him never to leave.

He had to keep Lestrade on his toes; there was no way around it.

“Hands to yourself,” Lestrade commanded. Sherlock placed his hands behind his back and sucked in a deep breath as Lestrade closed the blinds and drew the curtains closed. “Shirt, off,” he said as he pulled something out of the side table drawer. Sherlock turned to glance back at him. “Eyes forward and do as I say.”

Sherlock removed his sweatshirt as Lestrade continued to rummage through the drawer. Sherlock went through his mental map of the house and tried to think of all the things he kept in that drawer. He threw his hoodie on the floor and removed his t-shirt. He felt a slight panic as Lestrade crept up behind him and pulled a blindfold over his eyes.

He felt the familiar sensation of cool smooth metal clench on to his wrists and he knew he was in for a treat.

“Safe word?” Sherlock asked.

“You don’t need one.”

Sherlock shivered as the room suddenly felt colder. He could hear Lestrade circling him in a predatory fashion. God what he wouldn’t give for a riding crop to his bare chest. Instead, Lestrade slowly ran two fingers from the top of his sternum, down his chest and abdomen, right to the very edge of his trousers, just short of his crotch.

Sherlock was already squirming on the inside; trying not to let it show. This was going to be excruciating. He twitched as he felt Lestrade sneak up behind him once more.

“Come on,” was all he needed to say for Sherlock to be obediently dragged to the sofa. His mind went wild with all the possibilities. Lestrade removed Sherlock’s jeans and wasted little time working off his pants as well.

Sherlock lay on the sofa, completely exposed, blindfolded, hand-cuffed, and wondering what sort of punishment this was going to be.

Then Lestrade touched him in a way that made Sherlock uncomfortable. He shied away from Lestrade’s groping hands and let out a small whimper. Lestrade hushed him.

Lestrade gripped him firmly and right then, Sherlock wanted a safe word.

“Don’t,” Sherlock said breathlessly.

“I’ve been waiting far too long for this.” Lestrade pulled back and Sherlock could hear him rummaging through the drawer again.

Sherlock heard the all too familiar sounds of duct tape being torn. Lestrade strapped the strip of tape over Sherlock’s lips and pressed down firmly. Sherlock tried to protest but Lestrade only laughed.

“Beautiful,” he chuckled. Sherlock struggled against his bindings. “Would you like to spend the night alone like this?” Lestrade teased. Sherlock shook his head violently. “Be a good boy then and let daddy take care of you.”

Sherlock curled his toes and started growling. The last thing he wanted was a daddy.

Lestrade spread Sherlock’s legs for better access and dipped his head down slowly. Sherlock could feel his hot breath on his inner thigh. He jolted just as Lestrade’s tongue got its first taste of his flesh.

Although he was already blindfolded, Sherlock clamped his eyes shut and began to pray. Lestrade wrapped his lips around Sherlock’s cock and the further he went down the more Sherlock was convinced he was going to die. He tensed completely and no matter how much Lestrade coaxed him, he wasn’t about to relax.

Sherlock dug his nails into the palms of his hands as his savage flesh began to pulsate against Lestrade’s tongue. A tear rolled down his cheek and under his chin. Lestrade had no pity for him; he would stop at nothing to get Sherlock off. He wanted to expose Sherlock and see him at his most vulnerable.

Lestrade tore the blindfold off Sherlock’s eyes.

“Need me to stop?” Lestrade asked, throwing the blindfold over his shoulder. Sherlock nodded eagerly. “Tough luck.”

Sherlock arched his back as Lestrade started working him in his right hand. Lestrade ran the fingertips of his left hand over the duct tape on Sherlock’s mouth. “We should do this more often.”

Lestrade looked down at his handy-work and smiled to himself. “Bastard, you said you ‘require far too much stimulation to make it worth my time’.” Sherlock closed his eyes and willed his erection away. “Oh the things I’m going to do to you,” Lestrade teased. “You can put up a fight if you’d like, it won’t do you any good though.”

His fingers were slow and deliberate, ghosting over Sherlock’s skin, making his hairs stand on end. He placed a kiss on Sherlock’s knee and pulled away.

He sat on his knees, looked Sherlock over, and touched himself teasingly. Sherlock stared at Lestrade’s bulge, wanting nothing more than to bury his face in it and show Lestrade his worth. Lestrade released himself from his pants to reveal his raging hard-on. He tore open the condom packet and slowly rolled the rubber on to his cock, giving Sherlock a good show.  

Terrible thoughts infiltrated Sherlock’s mind. He wanted it to be like this always; he wanted Lestrade’s wife out of the picture. He wanted every ounce of Lestrade's praise and his tender caress. Everything he did made Sherlock feel excited and aroused. He was beginning to feel terribly dependent on a man that wasn’t, and could never be, his.

Unfortunately his thoughts couldn’t destroy his libido. As Lestrade lubed himself up, there was no denying Sherlock wanted it, oh so desperately. Sherlock had been ready for the moment he climbed through the window, but instead of ploughing into him, Lestrade took his time to gently ease him open with his fingers.

Lestrade stroked his eager hole with the pads of his fingertips and just barely pressed in. Sherlock felt a cold shock wave course through his body. Just as he was starting to relax into the sensation, Lestrade began stroking Sherlock’s cock once more.

The stimulus was too much. Lestrade started moving his fingers in and out, faster and faster, but kept pumping Sherlock’s cock in his fist, confounding Sherlock’s mind. Sherlock felt his mind begin to slip; his thoughts became incoherent and scattered.

Lestrade stopped just long enough to line himself up with Sherlock’s entrance and bury himself in quickly. Sherlock let out a loud satisfied moan. Finally they were getting somewhere. Then Lestrade’s damned hand went right back to work. Sherlock’s knees quivered and he went weak as Lestrade thrust into him and jerked him off at the same time.

Sherlock struggled against his bindings and tried to release himself from his hand-cuffs but Lestrade only drew him closer and continued to pound into him.

Then Lestrade did something truly insane. He let go of Sherlock’s prick, removed the tape from his mouth, leaned forward until they were chest to chest and kissed Sherlock right in the middle of it all. Sherlock’s lips stung but the more Lestrade kissed him, the less he thought about it.

Sherlock became absorbed in the kiss. It was deliciously wet and spine tingling. Sherlock found it hard to resist and the more his erection rubbed up against Lestrade’s taught abdomen, the more he started to lose his resolve.

Lestrade gripped both sides of Sherlock’s face and crushed their lips together as he gave a few sharp thrusts with his hips.

Lestrade’s grunts filled the air and Sherlock was beyond turned on.

Sherlock’s mind began to melt.

Then he fell into a panic as everything seemed to happen at once. The warm ember in his groin turned into a roaring fire and he could sense disaster approaching. Lestrade’s timing was impeccable; just as he pressed up on to his hands Sherlock looked down in open-mouthed shock.

Sherlock’s white hot release shot out of him with eruptive force and landed halfway up his chest. His orgasm aftershock came in waves and continued to make him pulsate. Lestrade wiped the sweat from his brow and positioned himself to fuck Sherlock into oblivion.

Sherlock began seeing stars burst as he was taken on a cosmic ride to the best orgasm of his life. He went completely blind from the sensation. Sherlock dug his fingers into Lestrade’s upper arms and held him firmly to keep him on course.

“Harder!” Sherlock demanded and Lestrade obliged. The feeling was so intense, Sherlock blacked out momentarily. Only to be brought back by an earth shattering second orgasm. With Houdini-like skills, Sherlock sat straight up and was in Lestrade’s lap in a matter of moments. The cuffs dangled from his left wrist as he snogged Lestrade ferociously and rode him with skilled precision.

Lestrade sat on the sofa in complete shock. Sherlock rolled his hips forward and buried his forehead into Lestrade’s neck. He wrapped his arms around him and held him close.

Sherlock began to drift off and his eyelids became very heavy.

When he awoke a few hours later he was alone in the dark, half dressed, and in the guest bed. He had never spent the night before and was beginning to think things had gone terribly wrong.

He left early in the morning without so much as a goodbye.

He refused to speak to Lestrade for weeks after the affair. It was becoming difficult to remain focused in the man’s presence, so Sherlock took up his own clients as a sort of private detective.

Business was slow, life was a bore, and Sherlock went on several cocaine binges to occupy his time. He and Lestrade slowly drifted apart though there was a quick hand-job here in there in a back alley or abandoned ship yard.

Lestrade desperately wanted Sherlock back. His marriage was falling to pieces and Sherlock could easily swoop in and put the final nail in the coffin, but he had much better things to do, like sit around his flat on Montague Street and mope for hours on end.

His landlord didn’t appreciate his late nightly experiments or drug habits and soon Sherlock was without a residence to mope around in. Sherlock found himself at Barts more often than not. He made a few acquaintances, mostly ones that idolized him.

When he finally found a new flat and needed someone to share the rent with, he first tried looking for prospective flatmates at Barts. After days of searching and no luck, he confided in Mike Stamford, who later that afternoon delivered.

Sherlock looked up from his work, put down his pipeteman, and sat down before his legs gave out. His heart pounded and his mind raced. It was definitely John, _the_ John. In some cruel twist of fate, Mike had brought the man of his dreams right to him.

Sherlock devised a scheme to seem disinterested.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine.”

“And what’s wrong with the landline?”

“I prefer to text,” Sherlock said nonchalantly, refusing to allow himself to acknowledge John’s presence.

“Sorry. It’s in my coat,” Mike said, pointing towards the door.

“Er, here. Use mine,” John quickly fished his mobile out of his back pocket. Sherlock over at John and finally got a good look at him after seventeen years.

“Oh. Thank you,” Sherlock said, without breaking his stride. He stood up and walked over to John who was leaning heavily on a cane.

“It’s an old friend of mine, John Watson.”

Sherlock flipped open the phone, took one look at the screen and knew he was single.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock ventured.

It was all downhill from there. Sherlock was able to lure John into sharing a flat with him and slowly but surely, Sherlock paid him back for letting him go free all those years ago.

John became his greatest ally and at times was Sherlock’s only friend. Everything was going smoothly until Lestrade decided to start snooping around. He began stalking Sherlock and begged him and pleaded to him to come back to him.

The more Sherlock tried to assure him there was nothing go on between him and John, the more agitated Lestrade became.

“I’m not an idiot, Sherlock! I know what’s going on between you two. You can’t keep your hands to yourself for two God damned seconds!” he shouted.

“Calm down, Inspector,” Sherlock said with a long bored drawl. John was the only man Sherlock had ever felt comfortable around and he wasn’t about to destroy his relationship because Lestrade wanted to play keep-away.

Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to have sex with John, although he’d had several urges and many occasions that he could have easily taken John into the bedroom.

“What happened to us?” Lestrade asked with a defeated sigh as he took a seat in John’s chair. “I just don’t understand. If you two aren’t shagging, then what’s stopping you?”

Sherlock looked off into space, willing Lestrade away.

“I mean, do you _want_ to be shagging him?”

Sherlock lolled his head over in Lestrade’s direction. “No,” he said plainly. He respected John far too much to put him through all that. For now, it was good enough for him to have John close and ensured that he stayed single. Sherlock would sabotage every one of John’s dates, not because he wanted to date John, but because he wanted John all to himself, forever and always. And if Lestrade couldn’t understand that, he could kindly bugger off.

Unfortunately, Sherlock never got the chance to tell John how much he respected and admired him. After quietly pining for John for nearly a quarter of a century, John ran off to marry Mary and Sherlock for the first time in his life realized he had an actual human heart beating in his chest; only now it was a broken human heart.

He attended the ceremony as John’s best man and constantly had to swallow the lump in his throat. Many congratulations were said, there were gifts and cake, even a murder mystery in the midst of everything.

It was supposed to be the two of them against the world, but now Sherlock was on his own in the world, once again.

Sherlock sat in his chair, turning the vial between his fingertips, contemplating his next move. His brother had already been by to gloat and make matters worse. All Sherlock could do now was debate whether or not it was worth drawing the attention to himself. He could overdose and spend a few weeks in hospital and rehab, or he could quietly mope and keep a steady drip going to ease his tortured mind.

He scanned the fluid for particulate matter and just as he was going to draw the needle, Lestrade walked in the door.

“Oh, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked down to see he already had a needle sticking out of his arm. He looked down in a daze, not quite remembering the intermediate steps between him filling the syringe and depressing the plunger.

“Am I dreaming?” he asked Lestrade who came to kneel beside his chair. Sherlock stroked the side of Lestrade’s face and found it was baby smooth; he’d only just shaved prior to coming over. “It’s Monday,” Sherlock said with a sigh. “You wouldn’t bother to shave any other weekday morning.”

Lestrade looked at him with such kindness and caring but instead of turning away from his helping hand, Sherlock embraced him.

“I’ve been such a fool,” Sherlock said, meeting his gaze. “John let me get away but you’ve always been there to take me in.”

He held Sherlock’s hand tight and brought it to his lips. Lestrade blinked and two tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Sentiment,” Sherlock scoffed as he sat up straight and stretched. “You really should keep that in check if we are to be... _boyfriends,”_ Sherlock made a sour face and shuddered at the notion.

“Do you mean it?” Lestrade asked with unbridled excitement.

Sherlock shrugged. “Why not? Seeing as my first choice is taken.”

Lestrade let the jeer slide along with several thousands of others for the many years they were a couple. Because at the end of the day, no matter what Sherlock said, Lestrade could always get away with duct taping his mouth shut and fucking him senseless.


	7. Contraception: Femlock Johnlock

“Ow, stop, that hurts. It doesn’t bend _that way_!”

“Would you just lay still?”

Normally one would be apt to believe that they were just overhearing a misconstrued conversation between two flat mates, but in this case, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were indeed having sex. Or at least _trying_ to have sex.

“Where are you going?” John asked, propping himself up on to his elbows as Sherlock picked up an armful of clothes and went to leave the bedroom.

It wasn’t unlike Sherlock to get bored half-way through and leave John to finish things, so to speak.

“We’ve only just started,” John complained. Sherlock swung open the door and left without a word... or pants.

John pulled himself back together, pulled up the zip of his jeans, re-buttoned his shirt, and fixed his collar. He was still half-hard, but one-hundred percent annoyed. After a few minutes of deliberation, John decided to chase after Sherlock.

He took one step into the kitchen and spotted the needle in Sherlock’s hand.

“Sherlock!” he shouted, rushing to grab the syringe that was on a fast course for Sherlock’s arm. “What on earth are you doing?” he screamed. “You can’t just go on a cocaine binge every time we have an argument in the bedroom!”

“It’s Depo-Provera!” she shouted back, wrenching the needle from his grip.

“Oh, God,” John said with a relieved sigh.

“Honestly, who would inject cocaine intramuscularly?” Sherlock asked, scowling at him.

“You really should let a doctor...” John started to say as she stabbed her upper arm with the needle. “That... is that even sterile?”

“No John, I thought I’d inject myself with a dirty needle just to watch you cringe.”

John rubbed his forehead and tried to control his erratic breathing. Fortunately his erection had subsided and he was able to think clearly once more.

“There,” Sherlock said, pulling the needle out of her arm.

“You should-“

“I should do a lot of things,” she said as she pulled on her shirt and re-buttoned it. John used the kitchen table for support as his leg started acting up, turning from pins and needles into fire.

Sherlock walked right up to the bookcase and started pulling books from the shelf; letting them fall to the floor.

“What the hell are you doing?” John asked as the tenth book came crashing to the floor with a loud thud.

“Mrs Hudson won’t answer her phone.”

On cue, Mrs Hudson knocked on the door and promptly opened it to toddle in. “Sherly, can’t you keep it down? I have the girls over. It’s-“

“My secret supply, what have you done with my secret supply?” Sherlock asked, grabbing the harpoon from the corner of the room.

“Eh?” Mrs Hudson cautiously stepped back towards the door.

“Cigarettes, what have you done with them? Where are they?” Sherlock asked, obviously annoyed. 

“You know you never let me touch your things,” she said nervously. “How bout a nice cuppa? Perhaps you could put away your harpoon.”

John walked over to defuse the situation and ended up with the harpoon’s tip pointed at his nose.

“I _need_ something stronger than tea,” she hissed. “ _Seven percent stronger,_ ” she murmured.

“Why don’t we have a seat and talk this over,” John said softly as he beckoned for the harpoon. Sherlock let out an aggravated sigh and tossed John the harpoon.

“I wouldn’t pin your hopes on that cruise with Mr Chatterjee. He’s got a wife in Doncaster that nobody knows about.”

“Sherlock!” John scolded.

“Well, nobody except me. The girls indeed, Mrs Hudson. Kasbah Nights, a bit racy for the girls, isn’t it? And a new dress to boot, my, my, I never knew you got so dressed up for knitting circle. Or was it book club today? I can never remember these things.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I really don’t,” Mrs Hudson choked out before slamming the door behind her.

“What the bloody hell was that all about?” John asked as he propped the harpoon against the corner of the fireplace.

“If only you knew.”

“Try me,” John said, taking a seat in his chair. He let out a small grunt in discomfort as he felt something sharp poking him in the leg. He reached under his thigh and pulled out what appeared to be the lower jaw of a juvenile crocodile.

“Honestly, Sherly.”

Sherlock growled in detest at the diminutive of her name. Very few people in the world were allowed to call her Sherly and John was not one of them.

Sherlock had the personality of cornered tiger with a thorn in its paw, strung out on crack cocaine. She lashed out at anyone and everyone and John was the only man brave enough to stand between her and the danger she seemed to find around every corner.

She was so inhuman at times and very un-lady like. But, often when the light caught her just right and she looked at John with those wild blue-green eyes, John would feel his heart drop into his stomach. John felt like he was the luckiest man alive, knowing what those cupid’s bow lips tasted like. Then Sherlock would open her mouth and John would be brought back to reality.

“John! What are you staring at?” Sherlock asked, beyond annoyed.

John blinked and shook his head clear. “Sorry.”

John looked at Sherlock who was biting at her bottom lip. She had her brows knitted in worry.

“When was the last time you ate?” he asked.

“I don’t know, what’s today?”

“God, Sherlock. That’s anoerexic!”

“I don’t do it to lose weight! I’m far too busy to be bothered with food. It slows me down,” she said, pacing the floor.

John stood up and immediately went for his coat on the back of the door.

“That’s it we’re going out on a date,” he said as he pulled on his coat and shrugged it over his shoulders.

“A date?” Sherlock asked, snarling her upper lip in disgust.

“It’s where two people who like each other go out and have fun,” John elaborated as he grabbed Sherlock’s coat.

“I’m not dressed for an evening out,” Sherlock said, crossing her arms. Of course she was impeccably dressed in a purple button-up and black trousers. She didn’t have a single hair out of place and couldn’t have been any more beautiful if she tried.

“A bit of fresh air would do you some good,” John said, helping her into her coat; standing on tip-toe to get it over her shoulders.

“Nothing like a bit of fresh London smog,” Sherlock said, turning her coat collar up and stuffing her hands into her coat pockets.

After a twenty minute argument about where they should have dinner, they ended up at the first place John suggested. Sherlock rushed in before John could hold the door for her and as he was pulling out a chair for her, she took the seat across the table.

“I hate Italian,” She said, handing her menu to John.

“We discussed this in the cab. You wanted food that was small in portion, rich in carbohydrates, fats, and protein. I said Italian, you said yes. We’re already here-“

“I wanted Spanish.”

“Of course you do,” John grumbled as he looked over the menu. The waiter came by with water and John ordered a bottle of white wine.

“I prefer Syrah,” Sherlock said, tapping her nails on the table top.

“I know. That’s why I got the Chardonnay,” John said with a smirk. Sherlock continued to glare at him as he reviewed the menu. “Get whatever you’d like, dear,” John said with a wry smile. “You’re paying.”

The waiter came back to take their order and Sherlock turned on her charm.

“A mixed salad,” she said sweetly.

“No,” John corrected. “She’s not.”

“I’m watching my figure.”

“Watching it waste away. No, she’s having the margherita pizza.”

“I _want_ a salad.”

“You’re having pizza,” John insisted. “Doctors orders.”

John met Sherlock’s unrelenting glare and the waiter suddenly felt uncomfortable being caught in the crossfire of their argument.

“ _Fine,"_   Sherlock hissed. The waiter nodded and retreated to the safety of the kitchen.

“Wine?” John asked smugly. Sherlock gladly took the glass of Chardonnay and gulped it down before John could say a word.

John refilled her glass and smirked as she chugged it down. Sherlock all but slammed the wine glass on the table top and let out a satisfied sigh as she smacked her lips together.

“You’re not getting into my pants tonight, John Watson. If that’s what you think.”

“I thought nothing of the sort,” John said with a smile.

“Taking advantage of a woman,” Sherlock scoffed.

“I would never.”

“You know how emotionally fragile and delicate I am,” Sherlock said as she ran her ankle up John’s leg. “You could easily overpower me. You’re such a big... strong man... and I am so _weak,_ ” she said with a raspy voice as she licked her lips sensually.

John laughed to himself. “You’re not getting out of dinner that easily."

“I despise you,” Sherlock said, gritting her teeth.

“Love you too.”

Sherlock had another two glasses a wine and by the time food arrived, she forgot all about her deep rooted hate for John and ate like a normal human being for once.

“I should get you drunk more often,” John said after her third slice of pizza.

“Lay off me, I’m starving,” She growled.

“Maybe if you ate more than twice a week-“

“Do I criticize you and your life choices?”

“All the time, in fact.”

“Then you should know how annoying it is to have every aspect of your life under the dissecting scope.”

“It certainly is,” John said, taking another sip of wine.

“John, don’t drink so much, you won’t be able to get it up later.”

“What?” John sputtered.

“You heard me.”

“Check please!”

John was in a mad dash to get his half-drunken flatmate home before she came to her senses. He may have felt guilty if it were anyone but Sherlock.

She couldn’t keep her hands to herself in the cab and kept trying to pull down John’s zip, much to the cabbie’s dismay.

“Oi,” He warned.

“I’m trying!” John shouted back, when in all truthfulness he wasn’t fighting it much. It was his deepest darkest fantasy to have a shag in the back of a cab.

He was strongly let down when they reached Baker Street in record time, but was eager to get Sherlock up to the bedroom to finish what they had started earlier.

Sherlock leaned on him heavily in the stairwell and John struggled to bring her up the stairs. She turned abruptly, swung her arms around him, and brought him into a passionate and very open mouthed snog.

“Just a little further, love,” John pleaded.

“God, fuck me here on the stairs,” Sherlock begged.

“Some other time.”

Sherlock was already reaching for her trousers and succeeded in getting them halfway down her knees. John stumbled forward and took Sherlock down with him. Sherlock kicked off her shoes and attempted to wrap her legs around John’s torso.

“Are you wearing any pants?” John asked, looking down to check.

“No,” Sherlock said plainly. They both burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter which rapidly turned into a sloppy, horny, and drunken snog-fest.

John panted and whimpered as the strain in his pants became too much to bear but the more he tried to drag Sherlock up the stairs, the more she resisted. If John wasn’t almost certain they’d be caught, he would have gone along with Sherlock’s maniacal plan to get them both evicted from 221-B Baker Street.

Sherlock wasn’t about to have plain old ordinary penetrative sex in a boring bed. It was far too predictable. She wanted excitement and adventure and confining her to one spot in her state was worse than death itself.

“Look, I’ll do it just about anywhere so long as we’re not caught,” John insisted.

“Broom cupboard,” Sherlock said in a dead serious voice.

“What?”

“At the base of the stairs. Best of both worlds. Now come on.”

Sherlock stripped off her trousers completely and made a break for the broom cupboard.

“Are you mad?” John asked as he watched her disappear into the cupboard. “I better not end up with a broom handle where it doesn’t belong.”

John raced down the stairs, two at a time and stepped inside the cupboard with Sherlock. Sherlock reached out, locked the door, and promptly lunged at the good doctor. She snogged him passionately and with unabashed desire.

She pulled John’s hand right to where she wanted it and John got a good feel of just how turned on she was.

“Oh, God,” John blurted out as he felt his knees go weak. She pressed up against him and rubbed her pussy up against his hand as John stood, stunned, and utterly aroused. John’s cognitive brain activity ceased to function and he was left a stupid mess.

Then she dropped to her knees, the back of John’s head hit the wall, and he could have died right then and there and been a happy man. This made up for everything Sherlock had ever done to him. She pulled down his zip, released him from his pants, and fondled him gently before swallowing him whole. She was absolutely brilliant and could take John to the back of her throat without gagging.

John raked his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and gave it a good tug, knowing she liked it a bit rough, but not having the heart to fuck her face. John’s burning desire only grew with all the delicious noises Sherlock was making, wrapped around his cock. He had to calm himself down several times to keep from coming right then and there.

Sherlock pulled away with a gasp. “Take me, John.”

John didn’t need to be asked twice. He helped Sherlock to her feet, slid his pants down around his ankles, and worked on positioning his partner in the cramped space. Sherlock turned on her heels, placed her hands on the wall, and spread her legs.

“That will work,” John said, lining himself up for the kill. He drove it home with one swift thrust and Sherlock nearly climbed the wall. John wrapped his hands around to grab her breasts for support and pounded into her relentlessly.

Sherlock pressed her forehead against the wall and wailed like a wanton whore as John relieved all of his frustration on her tight pussy. Sherlock met every crash of his hips and begged for more.

John began to slow down and Sherlock let out a loud whine and wriggled her hips.

“God, please,” she pleaded with a cry. John pulled out and turned her around. Sherlock took the hint and wrapped her legs around John’s torso. John held Sherlock in mid-air and proceeded to fuck her forcefully as she held on to his face and kissed the hell out of him.

Every other breath Sherlock panted, “Oh God.” Until her whole body tensed and she let out a shocked gasp. John felt the pressure building and building, along with the familiar tingling sensation radiating up and down his shaft, and the more he tried to fight it the harder it became to hold back, until suddenly he could fight it no longer.  

His knees buckled as he came loud and hard deep inside Sherlock. He held on to Sherlock for dear life as he gasped for air.

Sherlock was completely blissed out and could hardly stand on her wobbly legs. Both were breathing heavily and trying to recuperate when suddenly Sherlock heard a noise at the door.

She quickly clamped a hand over John’s mouth and listened in at the door.

 _“Two steps and a click,” s_ he whispered.

 _“Mycroft,”_ John whispered in stunned horror. He looked down to Sherlock’s bare legs. _“Sherlock, your trousers.”_

“Oh, bloody... Christ!” she shouted as she swung open the door and stormed out into the entryway, past her brother, and to her discarded trousers at the base of the stairs.

John stood in the broom cupboard, paralyzed in fear, as he heard the upstairs door slam shut. He closed his eyes and prayed as he put himself back together and stepped out of the cupboard.

“Mycroft, what a surprise.” He was impressed that his voice only wavered slightly as he came face to face with the most dangerous man alive.

“John,” Mycroft said with an equally shocked expression on his face. “So you two are...”

“No,” John said as he shook his head. “Friends... still... just friends.”

“Ah,” Mycroft said, twirling his umbrella’s handle. “Should we expect a happy announcement at the end of this week?”

“I sure hope not, she just had her shot this morning.” John gave it a thought. “Yeah, _no._ ” The thought of having children with Sherlock sent an unpleasant shiver down John’s spine.

“You do know that the shot must be administered within the first five days of a menstrual period to be effective immediately?”

John’s face turned ghost white. “Sherlock!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always wondered why some broom cupboards have door locks, now we know why!


	8. The Tango: Femlock Mystrade

“He’s back,” Sally Donovan teased as she peered out DI Lestrade’s office window.

“Oh God,” Lestrade groaned. “Would you please just get rid of him?”

“You know security won’t touch him.”

Lestrade stood up in a huff and stormed over to the window. “Fuck,” she said, watching Mycroft Holmes enter New Scotland Yard.

“What’s he so keen on you for?” Sally asked with a snide laugh.

Lestrade ignored her and grabbed her coat. “Tell him I’m on a scene, leave it vague.”

“You know he won’t fall for it.”

“It will _at least_ buy me twenty minutes to come up with a better plan,” Lestrade left her office and walked twenty feet before ducking into the nearest cubicle and behind a potted plant. Her pulse quickened as she peered around the corner to see Mycroft and his guard stepping out of the lift.

Anderson stepped into his cubicle and looked down at Lestrade with his signature confused look.

 _“Anderson,_ ” Lestrade whispered. Anderson gave her a queried look and cocked his head to one side. Lestrade motioned in the general direction of Mycroft and Anderson looked at her dumbly.

 _“Distract them!”_ she hissed.

Anderson looked at Mycroft, then back to Lestrade, then back to Mycroft, and just as he was about to step foot out of the cubicle, Lestrade heard an all too familiar and congenial, “Ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

Lestrade let out a heavy sigh and ran a hand over her face, “Mr Holmes.” Mycroft offered her a hand up and Lestrade took it begrudgingly.

“I take it you’ve read through my proposal?” Mycroft asked, leading Lestrade back into her office.

“Look,” Lestrade said turning on her heels as the guard closed the door to allow them some privacy. “I’m flattered, really I am. But I’m _really_ not looking to start anything.” Lestrade looked to the over-sized guard on the other side of the glass and began to worry about her safety as Mycroft twisted the blinds shut.

“Have seat,” Mycroft said, motioning towards her chair. Lestrade looked to the chair and furrowed her brows. It was just like the government to walk into a building and act like they owned the place.

“I just got through with one divorce, I don’t need-“

“Georgia, may I call you Georgia?”

“I prefer Lestrade.”

“Lestrade,” Mycroft repeated, disappointedly. “I understand your _apprehensions,_ ” he said with a small smile. “But believe me, they are completely unwarranted. I’m merely asking-“

“For a major commitment!” Lestrade interrupted. “I hardly even know you and you’re asking me to...” Lestrade couldn’t form the words.

“Marry me,” Mycroft finished.

“No,” she said plainly.

Mycroft held out a rather thick packet of documents.

“What’s this?” Lestrade asked as she took the stack of papers and thumbed through them.

“A contract detailing all the benefits you would receive as my wedded wife, along with the marriage licence. All you need to do is sign,” he said, producing a pen from his coat pocket.

“I have kids,” Lestrade reminded him.

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“Five.”

Mycroft gulped slightly and straightened his tie. “I’m certain we could work things out.”

“So... they’d take on the Holmes name?”

“Article five, paragraph three, sub-section 6,” Mycroft said with an arrogant tone. He placed his hands behind his back and waited for Lestrade to grab her glasses and have a seat.

Lestrade scanned through the details and started to feel small pangs of panic and guilt. She _was_ struggling to pay for the house, the car, the children’s school and day nursery expenses. Under Mycroft’s arrangements she’d be able to have an in-home nanny for the littlest one and could send the other four to the best schools in the country and never worry about finances ever again. The only caveat being they’d all have the Holmes name.

“What about my ex?” she asked with a sigh. “He’s not going to agree to you changing the children’s names on their birth certificates.”

“I can assure you, we have ways around pesky exes.”

Lestrade looked up at him and felt her pulse quicken slightly. “And if I didn’t want him to see the children anymore?”

“That can be arranged,” Mycroft said with a smirk.

“I don’t want him _dead_ or anything,” Lestrade said, clearing her throat.

“And his mistress?”

“Wouldn’t mind if she happened to ‘disappear’,” Lestrade held back a laugh and looked back at the documents. “Why are you doing all of this?” Of course it all seemed too good to be true.

“In my line of work, one must keep up appearances.” Mycroft said looking away. “People talk when they see a man of my age, never married, no woman to speak of, nor any interests in pursuing one.”

Lestrade let the cogs turn in her head. “So they think you’re...” An awkward silence fell on the room and Lestrade shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She looked down at the papers in her hands. “Can I have some time to think things over?”

“Two hours,” Mycroft said as he opened the blinds. “I want an answer before lunch. I’ll have the car pick you up at noon.”

Lestrade sat, stunned, as Mycroft swiftly and confidently left the room. Sally rushed in and shut the door.

“Well?” She asked.

Lestrade sat with her mouth half open. “I don’t know.”

“Are you going to say yes?”

Lestrade looked at her strangely. How did she know? Then she saw that the red light on the intercom was flashing. “You were listening in this whole time!” she shouted as she stood from her chair.

“Relax, I do it all the time.”

Lestrade let out a shocked gasp.

“When a guy like Holmes draws you into your office alone and shuts the blinds; I gotta make sure you're okay, right?” Sally elaborated.

“I’d appreciate you not listening in on my private conversations!” Lestrade quickly felt her rage subside as she was thrown into a panic. “What am I supposed to do?” she asked, throwing her arms into the air. “I can’t say no!”

“Then say yes,” Sally said, as if it was a simple decision.

“I can’t!”

“Why not?”

“He’s... I don’t want to,” she said childishly. “I’m just not ready. And I don’t think I’ll ever be. Not with him. Never!”

“He’s just going to keep bothering you until you actually do say yes.”

“Men,” Lestrade groaned.

Noon rolled around and Lestrade was still completely indecisive and erratic. She took her anger out on her fellow officers and barked orders left and right while she prayed for a murder so she could be whisked away to a crime scene at the last moment and be tied up for several hours.

Today she had no such luck. The office was dead quiet and she was left to her thoughts for long periods of time without the slightest interruption.

Then she received the call that the car was waiting for her outside. She gathered her things and walked to the lift while she argued with herself on the inside.

She had to think about her children; she had to think about herself. It was just business; it was incredibly personal. She didn’t want to be in a relationship; she felt incredibly alone. Her ex was a prick; she wanted his girlfriend to eat shit and die.

By the time she reached the car she decided she couldn’t possibly marry Mycroft and when she reached the restaurant, she changed her mind. Then as she walked through the door, she changed her mind again and with every alternating foot step she switched back and forth between wanting to marry him and wanting to punch him in the teeth.

Before Mycroft could stand, Lestrade came to a final decision. “I’ll do it.”

* * *

 

Life went on relatively the same for the first three months. Only now when she came home, dinner was ready and waiting for her instead of waiting to be cooked.

It took some time before the bigger changes came into effect. The children were soon enrolled in better schools, they moved into a larger house, and finally got a car that comfortably seated all five children, booster seats and all. The children became involved in horseback riding, rugby, football, swimming, ballet, gymnastics, and Lestrade didn’t have to worry about any of it because the nanny took care of it all.

She could finally sleep soundly at night knowing her children were happy, healthy, and well taken care of.  It seemed like marrying Mycroft was the best decision of her life.

Then Mycroft decided to throw a wrench in things.

“I can’t go to Moscow!” Lestrade shouted. Mycroft slid the invitation across the table and she snatched it away quickly. She already had to attend monthly meetings with Mycroft to discuss affairs; now she had to attend a ball with him as his supposed ‘wife’ and mother of _his_ five children? “I didn’t even know people still held balls.” She said in disgust, looking over the invite. “What about the children? We’ll be gone for a week! I’ve never been away from them for more than a day! We can’t take them with us, can we?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Oh, why would you care?” Lestrade asked with a huff. She looked back up at Mycroft and saw the disappointment in his eyes and felt guilty for yelling at him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean-“

“It’s quite alright. I understand.”

Lestrade let out a sigh. “Well... guess I don’t have much of a choice.” She shrugged. “Might even be fun.”

Once they arrived at Domodedovo airport and Lestrade was hit with sub-zero temperatures she was ready to leave.

“God... bloody... fuck! It’s cold,” she said shivering from head to toe as they walked to the car.

“Here,” Mycroft said, offering up his coat. Lestrade gladly accepted and immediately felt thirty degrees warmer.

“Thanks,” she said, letting out a relieved sigh. They entered the car and Mycroft started pouring some vodka. “How appropriate,” Lestrade laughed, taking her glass.

“To England,” Mycroft toasted with a grin. Lestrade began to warm up and loosen up with a little more vodka in her vessels. Mycroft paid little attention to her as he typed away on his mobile and worked on several projects at once on his tablet. Lestrade looked out the window briefly but returned her attention to Mycroft who was so absorbed in his work he hardly noticed she was watching him.

She tried to analyse the man, work out his intentions, find his weak spots, but all she saw was his government façade. They arrived at the Ritz, stepped out of the car, and were immediately greeted by another one of Mycroft’s well-manicured guards that ushered them to the private entrance.

Lestrade looked up at the impressive architecture. The sun was beginning to set and if it wasn’t absolutely freezing she would have stopped for a moment to take in the magnificence of the area they were staying in.

“Oh, your coat,” she said once they stepped inside. “Sorry, I forgot I was wearing it.”

She quickly stripped out of Mycroft’s coat and handed it back to him, not wanting to appear too comfortable wearing his things.

Lestrade looked up and was in such awe of the amount of gold adorning the ceiling and light fixtures, that she nearly tripped over the stairs. Luckily Mycroft was there to catch her fall.

She blushed bright red and Mycroft let go of her arm immediately. She paid closer attention to her surroundings as they ascended the stairs to the lift which brought them to their floor.

The guard opened the door to their room and Lestrade saw one bed and a two seat sofa that was far too small for either of them to sleep on comfortably. The view of Red Square should have been breath taking, but all Lestrade could think about was sharing a bed with her ‘husband’.

“There isn’t another room, is there?” Lestrade asked, nervously.

“No.”

“I thought not.” Lestrade looked at the bed as if it were the executioner’s chair. It was getting late and they’d be turning in soon.

All throughout dinner Lestrade couldn’t keep her mind off that damned bed.

Mycroft tried debriefing her on the ball and she tried to pay attention but all she could think about was him and her in bed together, naked. Just how far were they going to go with this ‘marriage’?

She had been so blinded by the money she hadn’t once thought of what Mycroft might want. She could only hope he was gay or at least just not that interested.

“Georgia.”

Lestrade jumped at the mention of her name. “Sorry, what?”

“If sharing a bed really bothers you that much, we could-“

“No, no. We don’t want to blow our cover,” she said, taking another sip of wine to calm her nerves. After many, many sips of wine she was ready for bed and could care less who was sleeping next to her.

She woke up late the next morning, sprawled out on the bed, with her hair a mess and makeup smeared across her face. The first thing she noticed was Mycroft’s absence. Her head cried out in agony as she sat up and she spent the rest of the morning nursing her hang-over.

By late afternoon she began to wonder where Mycroft had run off to, but decided it was none of her business, so she made the most of her holiday and took advantage of having a television to herself. She ordered room service and enjoyed some quality time alone. Then, just as she was starting to relax, she received the call from Mycroft’s personal assistant informing her that she needed to be ready by the time Mr Holmes returned.

“Whatever,” she said, hanging up the phone. She finished her food and took her time getting ready so that when Mycroft returned she kept him waiting. When she was finally ready, they were running late.

Mycroft checked his pocket-watch at least twelve times between the hotel and the palace. They arrived three minutes late and Lestrade laughed at how flustered Mycroft became trying to get things under control once more.

Mycroft could run an entire country in his sleep but trying to control one woman was proving to be a daunting task for him.

“You’ve obviously never had a girlfriend,” Lestrade remarked as they climbed the stairs together.

“Do hurry,” he pleaded.

“Why don’t you try walking in heels? Or better yet, why don’t you go on ahead of me if you’re so desperate to get in there.”

“We have to arrive together,” he practically whined.

“They’ll know we’re not _really_ married if we’re not at least ten minutes late and bickering at the door when we arrive.”

Mycroft looked at her dumbfounded. “Do you really believe they’ll suspect we’re a fraud?”

Lestrade looked into Mycroft’s eyes and for the first time she saw true worry in the man’s face.

“Would you like for me to hang off your arm like a dumb floozy?”

“Would you?”

“I’ll laugh obnoxiously at every one of your jokes and call you darling after every other word if it makes you feel better.”

“Let’s not overdo it,” Mycroft said, offering up his arm.

Lestrade felt she stuck out like a sore thumb with all the twenty and thirty-something blonde supermodel trophy-wives hanging on their husband’s arms. Lestrade felt incredibly self conscious of her silver hair. She wasn’t ugly by any means; in fact she was often told she was quite pretty, _given her age._

Lestrade wanted to hide in a corner and wait for it all to be over so she could return to London where the only man that stared at her and tried to break her apart with their gaze was Sherlock.

She felt as if all eyes were on her as she walked down the steps and into the ballroom. With every introduction and handshake, she felt less confident about her appearance. She looked to Mycroft for reassurance but he had on an impenetrable politician’s façade that didn’t reveal anything about his true emotions.

After what felt like the ten millionth introduction, Lestrade pulled Mycroft off to the side and broke down. “I can’t do this.”

“Don’t cry, your make-up with run. Here,” Mycroft said, producing his handkerchief.

“My make-up will run?” Lestrade asked in disbelief. “Thanks, that’s really comforting,” she said shoving Mycroft’s handkerchief back into his hands. “Look at those women! They’re _decades_ younger than me. Why did you put me through this? Why couldn’t you just find a French supermodel like everyone else?”

“I didn’t _want_ a French supermodel, I wanted you!” he shouted in anger. “Those women can’t hold a candle to you.”

“I know that, but...” Truly she didn’t believe it. Certainly she was more intelligent than the lot of them but that was beside the point. Their breasts were perky, they had skinny little hour-glass figures, and probably had never worked a day in their lives. Their only purpose in life was to serve men.

Even if Lestrade didn’t have pride in herself, she had a purpose in life that didn’t involve sucking diamonds out of a rich man’s dick.

At that thought, Lestrade drew in a sharp breath. She looked down at her left hand. “I don’t have a ring,” she said in a panic as she noticed the immaculate rings adorning the other women’s fingers.

“Don’t worry,” Mycroft said, reaching into his pocket. He withdrew a small box and opened it to reveal a diamond wedding ring that not only had a huge beautifully cut diamond in the centre, but also had a swirling band of diamonds down the sides and all around the ring. There wasn’t a square centimetre of that ring that wasn’t coated in diamonds.

“Holy shit,” Lestrade said looking at the ring. Mycroft removed it from the box and placed it on her finger. Lestrade stared at the ring on her finger. She’d never had such a nice piece of jewellery; she was terrified she was going to lose it.

“Thanks,” she said after a long silence. “I mean it... for everything,” she said shaking her head. “Wow.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Mycroft said as he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her cheek. Lestrade felt her heart flutter slightly. It wasn’t often she was treated like royalty. She was beginning to think Mycroft was a decent human being after all. He was very much unlike his brother who treated Lestrade like she was a man.

Sherlock waited for Lestrade to open doors for him, never thanked her for anything, and would push her out of the way if she was blocking his view. She felt like an idiot for being attracted to him. If only he wasn’t so damned gorgeous or maybe less of a pompous dick, then maybe Lestrade would have an ounce of self confidence. From the moment she met Mycroft’s brother, her self esteem had plummeted and her life became a massive failure.

Then Mycroft came along and picked her up out of the ashes and dusted her off.

For the first time in a long time she actually felt worth something. A man who could have anything he wanted chose her of all people. He gave her everything and expected little in return.

People began pairing up to dance and Lestrade looked towards Mycroft. “Do you dance?”

“No,” Mycroft snickered as he handed her a glass of champagne.

“Thank God,” she laughed. “They look ridiculous.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more.”

“What’s the point of these things anyway? Obviously no one’s having a good time.”

“It’s meant to demoralize and humiliate those without a spouse and act as a constant reminder that we must conform and maintain the status quo or be ostracized from our peers and continue to live our lives in misery and woe until we find that 36-24-36 woman that meets or exceeds expectations. And God forbid if we don’t have at least one male heir with a biblical name that is Eton bound.”

Lestrade laughed when she thought of Joseph at Eton. “You’ve got to be kidding. We don’t stand a chance.”

“I wouldn’t throw the towel in quite yet. We have three chances.”

“If the boys inherited any of their father’s genes, I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if all three were accepted with open arms knowing what I know about their head-master,” Mycroft said with a smirk.

“While you’re at it you could look into my promotion to Detective Superintendent,” Lestrade joked.

“That can be arranged.”

Lestrade laughed and gave him a playful punch in the arm.

“The champagne must be going to my head. Normally I’d have a person executed for assaulting me in such a manner.”

“Oh I bet you would,” Lestrade teased. The champagne was starting to go to Lestrade’s head as well and they both started laughing a little too loud at each other’s jokes and began drawing attention to themselves.

Mycroft started showing off his own powers of deduction and Lestrade nearly fell over from laughter from the things he came up with.

“If you’re making this up...” she laughed.

“I’d never. Look at these two for instance. She’s pregnant, he doesn’t know it, and it obviously isn’t his. The man across the room has been tensing every time her husband’s hands venture too close to her bottom. Going by his suit’s tailor, the man in the corner of the room is a man of little power and limited wealth. Being a billionaire heiress she would never be caught dead in the company of such a man.”

“But shagging him’s another story,” Lestrade added. “So why keep the baby?”

“Power play.”

“Yeah but if her husband ever found out-“

“He’d be humiliated by the press if he ever questioned the father of his wife’s child.”

“Clever,” Lestrade admitted. “That is, until either her husband or her lover slits her throat in her sleep and she ends up on the slab.” Lestrade checked her watch and let out a sigh. “How’s about we get out of here?” she asked a little more sensually than she had intended. “Unless you feel like dancing,” she said, nodding towards the dwindling crowd of dancers.

“Do you Tango?”

“Do I Tango? How else do you think...” Lestrade gave it a second thought. “Yeah, sure,” she pulled him out on to the ballroom floor. “How about you lead?”

“I was intending to,” Mycroft said as he nervously cleared his throat.

“It’s a joke, darling.”

“Right.” Mycroft’s eyes scanned the room and he swallowed hard. His left hand trembled as he raised it up to cup Lestrade’s ready and waiting right hand. Lestrade rested her left hand on his right arm and held back a snicker as he wrapped his right arm around her.

“Nervous, much?” she whispered into his ear. Mycroft sucked in a breath, and regained his composure as he took his first step forward just as Lestrade took her first step back. With the hardest part out of the way, the two danced with ease.

They were quite the pair, being of close age and similar height. Lestrade, unlike most women, could look Mycroft directly in the eye. She could be quite intimidating even for a confident man like Mycroft. It was exhilarating to watch such a powerful man turn to putty in her hands.

Lestrade noticed Mycroft’s face was beginning to become flush and his shoulders starting to tense. The closer she got to him, the more he pulled away. His eyes darted away every time she looked at him as if he didn’t want her to know he was looking at her.

Soon the tension became too much to bear. Lestrade turned the tables and took the lead. Mycroft looked at her in wide-eyed horror as she effortlessly guided him across the room. She could tell he was terrified someone would notice.

The melodrama between the two was almost palatable. They turned heads left and right. Mycroft fought to regain the lead and their simple ballroom dance turned into a sensual Latin tango within a matter of moments with both partners fighting for dominance at every turn.

Just as Lestrade thought she had him cornered, Mycroft spun her around and took the lead once more. They picked up the pace and their legs became entwined as they battled to switch roles. Soon they were spinning around, trying to disorient one another; only to end up dancing cheek to cheek.

Lestrade held on to Mycroft for support as she felt the room start spinning and after five steps she knew she was beat. She could only lean into him as he led her in circles around the dance floor.

“ _Bastard,"_ she said breathlessly.

And with that they shared their first kiss. It was not at all what she was expecting from a man like Mycroft. It was neither shy nor forceful, but more sweet and tender. She ran a hand across his cheek and he practically purred with enthusiasm.

It was then that she realized they were in the middle of the ballroom and had to pull away before she did something stupid. They both looked around in a daze as if they had forgotten where they were and were met with cheers.

Mycroft gave her a bow and Lestrade did an awkward curtsy.

As they left the palace, Lestrade pulled Mycroft aside and said, “That could have gone a lot worse.”

“I know,” he said with a relieved sigh. “Where did you learn to dance?”

“Oh, you know... military. Weren’t much else to do.”

“You’ve had your fair share of suitors.”

“That’s a nice way to put it,” she said, trying to conceal a smile. “So,” she said clapping her hands together. “Did I meet or exceed expectations?”

“You floored everyone the moment you walked through the door.”

“Alright, you’re pushing it.”

They both shared loads of laughs on the car ride back to the hotel and Lestrade completely forgot about their sleeping situation until they entered the door to their room.

“There’s no way I’m going to be able to sleep after tonight,” she said looking towards the sofa.

“Me neither,” Mycroft said as he looked at her with unmasked desire. Lestrade took the initiative and all but threw herself at Mycroft.

It had been far too long since she’d last been laid, so as the door was closing she started working to remedy the situation. Her dress was on the floor and her panties were strewn over the lampshade in no time flat.

She could care less about where they did it as she pressed Mycroft against the wall and ran her tongue up his throat suggestively. Mycroft took the hint and undid his trousers to allow her access.

Lestrade’s hand went straight down Mycroft’s pants and she wasn’t disappointed by what she found.

“Christ,” She said as she looked down to confirm her suspicions.

 “What?” Mycroft jumped slightly and looked down in worry.

“No, it’s... wow,” she said in awe. She wrapped her hand around it to get a good judge of his thickness. Her mind went numb at the thought of him inside her. “God, you could club a baby seal with that thing,” she said before her brain could catch up. “I’m sorry, I’ll stop talking now.”

Mycroft snorted a laugh and Lestrade tried her best to get them back in the moment.

Once their lips were locked and she had a firm hold of his cock, their thoughts returned to fucking each other’s brains out. Mycroft placed his hands on her hips and drew her so close his erection rubbed up against her abdomen.

She worked her hips teasingly and soon she was being pushed backwards towards the sofa. Mycroft pushed her over and on to the sofa and climbed on top of her, pining her to the spot. He wasn’t about to let her escape.

Mycroft rubbed up against her as their heated kiss turned sloppy. The head of his prick met her entrance and she began to worry it wasn’t going to fit. Mycroft slowed down and looked into her eyes as he started sinking in.

Lestrade curled her toes and tried to think happy thoughts. She held her breath and tried not to let her face show her discomfort as he entered her.

She threw her head back as he entered her fully and the pain began to ease. He let out a whiney moan and she could tell this wasn’t going to last long.

He pressed his forehead against her shoulder and started singing God’s praises. Lestrade was right there with him after he started picking up the pace. It felt good, damned good. Every one of her nerve endings were firing at once and Lestrade had a tingling sensation running up and down her spine. Her brain was mush and she couldn’t feel her legs.

Every spine tingling sensation was enhanced by Mycroft’s moans of pleasure. Then he leaned back and brought her legs on to his shoulders and every feeling became intensified to the point it was nearly painful.

She held on to his hips as he thrust into her and tensed as he starting hitting _that spot_ , over and over again. Then he stopped to grind his hips against her and stimulate her clit. The claws came out as she got closer and with a few shallow thrusts she felt the clouds of heaven open up and welcome her to an amazing climax.

It just kept building and building and when she thought she couldn’t take another moment Mycroft let out what sounded like a cross between a sneeze and a grunt.

Lestrade let out a breath and every muscle in her back relaxed at once. Mycroft let her legs down from his shoulders and Lestrade winced at the stretch in her thighs. He all about collapsed on top of her and Lestrade gave him a pat on the back.

They both drifted off into a deep sleep and woke up in a sweaty, sticky mess that both apologised for. They showered separately and went on with things as if nothing had happened between them.

Lestrade was thrilled to return to London at the end of the week but slightly saddened that they’d be going back to monthly meetings once more. She couldn’t expect Mycroft to want to become involved in bringing up her children, but part of her wished he was around more.

She returned to work rejuvenated and ready to start anew. Then Sherlock barged into her office and she gave up hope on turning a new leaf at work.

Sherlock was being his normal erratic and eccentric self, flying off the handle about something insignificant, when he noticed the ring on Lestrade’s finger. It was apparent from his reaction that he hadn’t been told about Mycroft and Lestrade’s little arrangement.

“Now, before you go blowing this all out of proportion,” Lestrade warned.

“Oh, God,” Sherlock said in utter repulsion. “You mean to tell me you’ve had... _sex?_ ” he asked as if sex was a fate worse than death.

“How in hell did you get sex out of what I just said?” she asked, placing her hands on her hips.

“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

“Wh-what?” she sputtered out in shock.

“Your breasts are huge!”

“Alright, Sherlock. That’s enough,” she said, ushering him out of the office.

“I meant in comparison to their normal size!” Sherlock shouted in his defence.

“Quit looking at my boobs!” Lestrade shouted a little too loud. She felt as if the whole floor had dropped what they were doing to stare at them with their mouths agape. Anderson’s lower jaw practically hit the floor as the papers he had been holding slowly slid out of his hands and on to the floor.

 _"Leave,”_ Lestrade hissed at Sherlock.

“Fine, but I’ll have you know-“

Lestrade gave him a swift kick in the behind before he could get a word in edgewise and slammed the door in his face.

Lestrade was allotted a moment of peace before Sally came rushing in.

“You’re pregnant?” she asked in disbelief.

Lestrade tapped her fingers on her desk and looked at the blinking red light on the intercom. “No, Sherlock’s just an arse.” Lestrade took a seat at her desk and let out a heavy sigh. “What does he know anyway?”

One home pregnancy test later and a good few hours of heaving sobs, followed by cheesecake and a crappy Nicholas Sparks film, Lestrade was ready to face her problems.

She began by confiding in the only person she knew she could trust. Her three-year-old, who looked at her as if she was absolutely mad and after a long-winded discussion about where babies came from, started to warm up to the idea of her mummy having a living ‘thing’ in her belly.

“So you see my problem, right sweet-heart?”

“Nope,” Zoe said, shaking her head.

“Okay, either you’re wise beyond your years or I’m an idiot for confiding in a toddler.”

Zoe shrugged her shoulders and squirmed to climb down the chair to return to her Barney marathon. Lestrade let her head fall into her shaking hands and tried to think of a way to break the news gently to her sort-of-husband.

Her co-workers were shocked and she received very few congratulations. Mostly she received their condolences as if having a baby was a death sentence.

The older children were upset to say the least. She’d expected at least one of them to be excited but they all knew what another baby meant.

“It’s not like I’m going to love you any less!” she shouted in her defence but the children wouldn’t hear of it. There were tears shed, toys thrown, and they formed a union that was hell bent on having their little voices heard. They even got the littlest to join their ranks through bribery and trickery. Soon the children began organising protests and sit-ins.

“Et tu, Zoe?” Lestrade asked after three hours of her children picketing outside her room.

“I’m on strike,” she said, crawling into her mother’s bed. “I don’t have to do what you say no more.”

“Fine,” Lestrade had had enough. She walked right past the picket line and into the kitchen. She pulled a chocolate cheesecake out of the freezer. The weaker children crumbled first and abandoned their picketing to beg for forgiveness. “Kids on strike don’t get cake,” Lestrade said taking a bite of heaven. She was practically drooling over the cake and debated letting the children have a slice, even if they were going to be compliant.

“She’s manipulating you!” Joseph, the ring-leader, yelled from the hall-way.

“You bet I am!” she shouted back. “Good children get cake and ice cream and lollies and get to stay up past bedtime and bounce off the walls until their little heads start spinning. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

“That’s bad parenting!” Joseph shouted in protest.

“I wrote the book on bad parenting, now get over here and have some bloody cake before I go and eat it all.”

Lestrade negotiated with their leader and came to a final agreement.

“I want it in writing,” Joseph demanded.

Lestrade grumbled, got out a pen and paper, and started drafting an official looking contract. After signing their names in blood and shaking on it, Lestrade finally restored order to the house and thought she could move on with her life.

That is, until she remembered that she had neglected to tell the father that he was going to be a father. She let out a loud groan, grabbed her mobile, and retired to her room.

After three attempts, forty minutes of on-hold music and two different secretaries, she gave up on trying to contact Mycroft directly and instead tried his brother. Surely he’d know how to get a hold of him. She fired off the first text and received an immediate response:

**I need your help**

**On one condition –SH**

**What?**

**I want to see the look on his face when you break the news –SH**

“Sadistic bastard,” Lestrade said to her mobile.

**Fine**

**Tomorrow. 8AM. Baker Street. Be there. -SH**

Lestrade arrived right on time and was let in by the landlady. She could hear Sherlock playing a joyful tune on his violin and entered the flat to find him in high spirits.

“Inspector, have seat, your ankles look terribly swollen. At the cheesecake again I see.”

“One of these days, Sherlock Holmes...” she warned as she took a seat. Sherlock gave her a wry smirk and went back to hacking away at his violin.

Mycroft burst in unannounced and red faced. He was primed him to throttle his brother and stopped just short of his pearly white neck when he caught sight of Lestrade.

“What is going on?” Mycroft demanded.

Sherlock put on his best innocent face. “You tell me, brother-dear.”

Mycroft looked towards Lestrade.

“I have no idea what he’s told you,” she admitted. 

“He ‘accidentally’ leaked top secret nuclear launch codes to... what _are_ you doing here?” Mycroft asked with an exacerbated groan as he rubbed his temples.

“Oh, didn’t she tell you?” Sherlock asked with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade shouted.  

“She’s knocked-up,” Sherlock said with a pop.

Lestrade turned bright red and hid her face in hands.

“Is that true?” Mycroft asked in disbelief. “Who’s the father?”

Sherlock laughed maniacally as Lestrade’s embarrassment transformed into unbridled rage.

“What do you mean who’s the father!? What kind of woman do you think I am!?” Lestrade asked as she shot up on to her feet.

“I didn’t mean...” Mycroft said, putting his hands up in defence. Sherlock held his ribs as he gasped for air. His eyes watered as he pointed and laughed at the two of them.

 _“Grow up,”_ They both hissed in unison.

In the following days, Mycroft and Lestrade saw much of each other but said little. They handled the logistics and kept things professional as they discussed their futures. They set aside their emotions and decided on what would be best for themselves and the pre-existing children.

Lestrade tapped her fingers on the table, “So that’s that then?”

Mycroft nodded.

“We’re having a baby.”

“You’re having a baby,” Mycroft corrected.

Lestrade smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand. “It’s a joint effort.”

Mycroft looked at her in confusion. “You are the one that is going to do all the hard labour, so to speak. I don’t see how I play a role in you having a child.”

“You’re going to stay around to support me, right?”

“Yes?”

“Then you’re just as much a part of this as I am.”

Lestrade had to admit it was nice having Mycroft at her beck and call. She was often desperately lonely and needed someone to cling on to. Mycroft was just as pathetic and would often come over on his own just to see how she was faring.

The iceman turned into a puddle the moment he stepped foot in Lestrade’s house. If anything, he cared _too_ much, and worried constantly. Lestrade could see why Mycroft had been such a cold hearted bitch for so long. He was an absolute wreck and needed more comforting than she did.

Children scared him; that was obvious from a run in with Mycroft and her youngest. Zoe darted out of her room, caught one sight of Mycroft and ran away screaming and Mycroft nearly did the same.

Mycroft wasn’t a cat, dog, or people-person. There was little hope he’d play an active role in parenting. Yet Lestrade clung on to hope and Mycroft’s waist-coat.

His smell was intoxicating and so comforting that she couldn’t pry herself from him. Then her hormones started acting up and she became even more of a mess.

She all but dragged Mycroft into the bedroom to fulfil her needs. She cursed at him for wearing so many damned clothes as she tried to tear him limb from limb.

Mycroft was just like any other male; his eyes glazed over and his mind went blank staring at his wife’s enlarged breasts as she tried, single-handedly, to strip him.

“You could help,” she reminded him. He continued to stare at her dumbly as if he’d never seen a naked woman before in his life.

“Hunh?” he asked after a long moment of silence.

Lestrade ignored him and went back to work getting him naked. By the end of it she’d had enough of buttons and was ready to look at her hard work. She held him at an arms-length and looked him over. He was pale, freckled, and hairy but had an impressive amount of man meat between his legs.

She couldn’t help but ruffle his hair as she pulled him into bed. It was apparent the man wasn’t much into foreplay from the way he tried to immediately force his way in. Lestrade was just glad she didn’t have to suck his dick.

As he sunk into her warm wet heat, they both let out a satisfied moan. Mycroft didn’t hold back and the head board slammed into the wall with every thrust.

Lestrade wanted it harder, faster, backwards, sideways, frontways and foreways. As things became more heated Mycroft took a moment to pull out, recoop, and change positions.

They lay on their sides and spooned for a moment as Mycroft bit and nipped at the nape of Lestrade’s neck. He eased her legs open to reinsert himself. Lestrade opened up eagerly and held her leg in midair as Mycroft got situated.

The fucking resumed and Lestrade buried her head into her arm. Mycroft played her like a harp, strumming every last nerve and chilling her down to the core.

His stamina and determination was commendable. She felt her orgasm lurking in the background, slowly creeping into her lower abdomen, and building into an icy hot fire that radiated throughout her loins. She reached a wall and was quickly sent through it. She tried to pull away and Mycroft drew her closer.

She became possessed as she tried to get off. She stimulated her clit with her fingertips and rolled her hips against Mycroft, further stimulating him.

Everything came to a head and they both let out a high pitched whine as they came together. Lestrade feet pulsated and her heart raced in her chest as she came down from her high. She blinked heavily and fell asleep wrapped up in Mycroft’s sweaty arms.

Of course she’d feel disgusting when she woke up; of course they’d say their awkward good-byes and go on with their lives as if it had never happened. But, Lestrade had finally found the perfect man. He paid the bills, was always on call, and was fantastic in the sack. He was the most powerful man in England and she had him by the balls.

Nine months later, order was restored to the universe with the birth of Lestrade’s sixth child, a baby girl which they affectionately named Sherlock.


	9. The Woman's PA: Kate/Irene Adler

Kate wasn’t a jealous woman…

Okay, yeah she was.

When Mistress Adler was in her prime, every act of sexual deviance she committed on her clients would make Kate’s blood boil with envy.

Kate had been drugged, shot at, and threatened with her own life more times than she cared to count. And now that they were supposedly lying low, she expected some sort of change, maybe a bit more intimacy, but instead she had become Irene’s glorified hand-maiden.

There were no more crops, no handcuffs, no leather; it was as if Irene lost her lust for life. All because of Sherlock Holmes.

_She doesn’t even like men! But I’m certain he does…_

Kate made her mistress her favourite tea and set out a plate of biscuits; mostly for show, seeing as Irene was on another one of her hunger strikes.

_He broke her heart. I should be breaking his legs._

She needed cheering up.

"You could suspend me from the ceiling, you always used to like that," she offered, as she brushed out Irene’s hair.

Irene sat at her vanity, letting out heavy dramatic sighs.

"Or you could tie a crib mattress to my back…" Kate suggested.

Irene merely shrugged in response.

"Flogging?" she tried.

Irene continued to stare at herself in the vanity mirror.

"I’m not your slave!" Kate blurted out after keeping it inside for far too long. She let the brush fall to the ground. "Sexual or otherwise!"

She grabbed Irene roughly by the chin, forcing Irene to look up at her.

"I love you," she growled as tears filled her eyes.

She smashed their lips together and clamped her eyes shut.

She released Irene and took a step back.

Irene sat for a moment, blinking; taking it all in.

"Come to bed, my mistress," Kate beckoned.

"Irene," she corrected.

Kate fell on to the bed with a defeated sigh.

Irene got up, out of her chair, and crawled into bed with her PA. She cuddled up against Kate’s backside and held her close.

"I’m sorry," Irene whispered as she pressed a soft kiss to the back of her shoulder.

"You’re never sorry," Kate sniffled.

"I know," she smirked and let out a content sigh as she pressed her cheek against Kate’s back.

Irene’s hand slowly ventured up Kate’s blouse. Kate backed up so her body was flush against Irene’s. Irene combed her fingers through Kate’s hair, moving it upward and onto the pillow. Irene placed a kiss on the nape of her neck before moving her hand to cup Kate’s breast.

Irene caressed her breast and kissed her neck with earnest. Kate kept scooting backwards hoping she’d take a hint. While her mistress was toying with her upstairs, her downstairs was feeling more than a bit neglected.

_I miss the whip._

This was a new form of torture she wasn’t used to.

_Enough with the foreplay!_

Kate rolled over abruptly.

She grabbed Irene’s hand a tugged it downward.

"I’ve been a naughty," Kate said with a low throaty growl.

Irene snickered.

"Punish me!" Kate whined.

Irene placed a hand on her cheek and stroked her thumb over her lips.

Kate sucked her thumb into her mouth. She mulled her tongue over it before biting down.

Irene pulled her hand away and laughed, “You little… _bitch_.”

Kate gave her a wry smirk and Irene let out a little gasp.

"Oh, you’re going to get it," she warned playfully.

"Oh please, mistress," she begged as she got up on her knees and slid down her skirt.

"Turn," Irene said with a wave of her hand.

Kate was bursting with excitement; she turned away quickly while Irene dug through the side table drawer.

Kate’s entire body shuddered with anticipation while Irene prepped herself in the background.

Irene placed a hand on Kate’s hip.

Kate craved her touch elsewhere.

Out of nowhere, Irene gave her a harsh slap on her arse; Kate let out moan.

God, how she liked it rough. It wasn’t until she had met Irene that Kate transformed into a kinky little slut. Before that she had a husband… children…

She blocked everything out of her mind; pain was her therapy.

Irene ghosted her fingertips along Kate’s spine, making her toes curl. What she wouldn’t give for a pleated leather riding crop and some handcuffs, or at least some rope. She’d even settle for cable ties.

All they had to use was Irene’s deft hand, or at least that is what Kate thought, until she felt something slide against her inner thigh.

Kate rested her head in her hands and presented herself for the taking.

Physically she was more than ready, but mentally… she wasn’t sure she could handle it.

Irene slid in with precision and it felt good; not what Kate was hoping for. She wanted it to be thick, long, and invasive with moving parts and vibrating bits.

Irene started moving her hips agonisingly slow. The grinding motion provided some stimulation but not nearly enough. She wanted to be drilled; not screwed

Kate let out a whimper in desperation.

Irene took a pity on her for once and began pounding her. Kate began to see sparks fizz and fade as her mind went blank.

In that moment, her world was Irene and that blessed strapless dildo between her legs.

Kate soon appreciated the simple synthetic silicon trouser snake pounding into her pulsating pussy. It was then she realized she didn’t need whips and chains; all she needed was…

"Irene!" she gasped as she came with tremendous force. Her thighs shook, trying to hold her arse upright for Irene to finish herself.

Kate ended up collapsing into a heap on the mattress.

She knew she’d have to change the soiled sheets later, but for now, she was content to lay in the mess she had made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Tunalocked for co-authoring


	10. 50+ Shades of Greg: Mollstrade

_Oh my God. I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to have a cardiovascular event and then, I’m going to die._

_Is he looking at me? Oh my God he’s still looking at me. Oh my God. Oh my God. I can’t even._

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"I’m fine, better than fine. I’m great… Just great," she burbles. She always burbles.

_Why? Why!_

"You’re shaking," he notes.

"Oh, that’s nothing I’m-"

He grabs her hand.

_I’m dead. This isn’t happening._

"Are you sure you’re alright?" he asks.

She responds without a word, just a mouse-like squeak.

Molly flushes a bright red as she looks down to stare at the high gloss table-top.

_Now I wish I was dead. Six feet under, cremated even. He thinks I’m desperate. He must think I’m just a stupid little girl._

She takes her wine glass with her free-hand and chugs thirstily.

"I’m sorry…" she apologises. "It’s been a while…"

_A while, two weeks? What would my mother say?_

_Hussy._

Molly groans on the inside.

_And what would she say about Detective Inspector Lestrade?_

_Old enough to be your father._

_Yes, well, he’s not THAT old._

_Old_ , she hears echoing in her mind; she prays she doesn’t say it out loud.

_Not old, sexy. Really, really sexy. Like mind numbingly sexy._

She dares to look up at him once more.   
_Drool worthy._

"Mmm," she hums out loud.

He lets out a startled laugh and she turns bright red once more.

"Another glass of wine?" he offers.

"Please," she practically begs.

_Liquid courage_ , was the last coherent thought she remembered before everything became a blur of sound and colour.

Suddenly she was spinning. No, not spinning: dancing.

_Holy shit, I want his face on my face._

Throwing caution to the wind and not giving two shits about dignity, she snogs the hell out of him. A horny, desperate, wet snog that seems to last for ages.

An hour to be precise.

It was an out of body experience and when she comes back into her own skin, she’s beyond wet. She feels soaked.

_Bloody hell._

They leave to get a cab. Greg has an arm around her waist to hold her upright.

"My mother wanted me to be a nun," she slurs.

"Oh?" he sounds amused.

"You know what I said?"

Greg just shrugs.

"Nunsense."

They both burst out laughing like it was the funniest joke either of them had ever heard.

"We should probably have sex," she decides.

"Maybe after you’ve sobered up a bit," he adds.

"Aww," she says. "That’s the nicest thing a guy has said to me in… since… ever!" she laughs but she sees Greg has a twinge of sadness in his eyes as he forces an awkward smile.

They end up stumbling back to her place. She already feels sober; sober enough to drive a car but with just enough sense not to.

"Sorry about the mess." She starts to feel self conscious about the laundry on the floor, the dishes piled in the sink, and the cat starring at her potential boyfriend… manfriend.

She throws her purse on the sofa and starts undressing and undoing her hair at the same time. She is a mess, hopefully a hot mess in Greg’s eyes, but a mess nonetheless.

"Coffee?" she asks.

"What?"

She notes the blank look on his face.

_When’s the last time he’s seen boobs?_

She’s still mostly dressed so she’s not sure why he seems so worked up about it. Then she realizes she had been covering herself up with a stupid oversized knit cardigan all night.

She always had to ruin everything by covering herself up; hiding behind layers of clothing. She couldn’t just wear a little black dress. There had to be clunky shoes, her gran’s knit cardigan, dangly earrings that took the focus off her face…

She frowns as she takes off her jewelry and takes a seat on the sofa to slide off her shoes. She feels like a giant disappointment.

_From horny to zero in no time flat._

"It’s getting late," she finally says with a sigh. She can understand if he doesn’t want to stay. She leans back to slump against the sofa.

"Is something wrong?" he asks worriedly.

"Nothing," she sighs as he takes a seat beside her. She turns to look at him. "And everything… All at the same time."

"I know the feeling," he admits, grabbing her hand once more. She melts right into him.

It feels so right to kiss him. Almost like it was about fucking time.

She runs a hand across his cheek and he leans forward. She can’t help but think how baby smooth his face is. How in general, he has a baby face.

_Babies…_

"Babies!" she cries out.

"What?" he startles; by now he’s on top of her, pining her to the sofa.  
“I meant, condom!” she dies a little on the inside.

"Oh, right…" Greg sucks in a pained breath and let’s out a hiss before shaking his head sorrowfully. "Don’t have one on me."

Molly wrinkled her brow in thought. She let out a sigh.

"It’ll be fine," she concedes.

"You’re sure?"

She nods and he goes for it.

He masterfully peels off her clothes, undoes her bra, slides down her knickers, and now she’s perfectly exposed.

She watches as he goes down on her and her eyes go wide as she nervously shimmies up the sofa.

_What the hell is he-_

"God!" she moans out loud.

He smiles and lets out a deep, perverted chuckle before he begins flicking his tongue rapidly.

Molly closes her eyes and tries to let the sensation overwhelm the awkward feeling of a man’s face between her legs.

He slides in a finger unexpectedly; Molly flinches but he continues his endeavours. He curls his finger upward as if he’s beckoning her to cum.

She’s convinced he’s trying to kill her. She’s already almost there.

Then, he pulls away, much to her relief, only to press his lips to hers.

She can taste herself, way too weird. His tongue slips into her mouth, the same tongue that was in, on, and all around her… Never mind, she can’t focus on anything with his finger still inside of her.

She starts rocking her hips, she feels truly shameless.

_Slut._

_Shut up, mother!_

She holds back from grunting.

_This is so much better than 50 Shades of Grey. Oh God, 50 Shades of Greg. Only he isn’t an ostentatious prick or a major control freak. He’s just amazing._  
Greg’s hand slips down to his trousers. Molly’s eyes shift to another part of the room.

_Is he… Going to remain dressed?_

He pulls away momentarily to fumble with his zip. He pulls his pants halfway down his arse and Molly just barely catches a glance of “it”, before he’s on top of her again.

She couldn’t even remember what it looked like before he starts sliding it inside of her. There’s just enough stretch to feel it but not enough to hurt.

He starts moving and it’s fucking fantastic. She’d never had anyone take their time with her before. He places a hand on her shoulder and she grabs him by the wrist.

"I’m not hurting you?" he asks.

She shakes her head before letting it loll back onto the cushion beneath her. All this grinding was doing wonders to her nerve endings. She’d never felt so stimulated.

"It’s tight," he says.

"Unh," she groans loudly.

_Compliments during sex? I can’t even…_

"Fuck me," she says boldly.

Soon her legs are up in the air and on his shoulders. He starts driving into her and she goes a bit boss-eyed.

He leans into her to claim her lips but his damnable hips keep at it like a jack rabbit.

She’s close, so bloody close. _Damn it._

She digs her fingertips into his shoulder blades and starts moving her hips, seeking satisfaction.

Then finally and all at once she climaxes with a gasp before going completely limp.

Greg pulls out and her legs are non-functional. She doesn’t care she can’t move. She could lie here forever.

She nods off for what feels like five minutes and awakens to her alarm clock.

She rolls over to slam her fist on the snooze button. It’s then she realizes she’s in her own bed.

_Oh my God. He carried me upstairs._

She rubs her face with her hands and lets out a moan before rolling out of bed. She wraps herself in her bed sheet and saunters downstairs for a shower, only to be hit by the smell of bacon.

_I don’t even have bacon!_

She pokes her head around the corner to see _him_! Cooking!

_I’m dead. I have to be dead. I had a cardiovascular event and then I died._

Greg turns his head to see her spying on him and he smiles his gorgeous smile.

Molly quickly hides and lets out a small squeal of joy.

_I’ve died and gone to heaven!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to co-author Tunalocked


	11. Bacon: Sherstrade

Greg rolls over and lets out a loud groan. He feels like death itself.

Major headache, nausea, and to top it off he can smell his own body odour.

No wait…

Greg draws in a deep breath through his nose.

"Bacon," he says, shooting up in bed. "Sherlock!" Greg panics and starts shaking Sherlock by the hip. "Your housekeeper is making bacon!"

"Oh, God," Sherlock groans and presses his face against his pillow. "Just let me die in peace!"

"If she finds us-"

The door opens without warning and Greg dives under the covers.

"Breakfast is on the table, boys!" Mrs Hudson calls out, with the door half cracked open.

"Shit, shit, shit," Greg mutters under his breath. "I need to go. NOW."

Sherlock points in the direction of the door.

Greg gathers his things, stuffs his mobile in his jeans’ pocket, and scurries out the door.

It was a long walk of shame, the longest a man has ever had to endure. And to make matters worse, he’d offended the housekeeper by not staying for breakfast.

That’s how things were with Sherlock though, every night was a one night stand. In his eight or so years of knowing him, they’d shared nearly a hundred one night stands.

The sex, if you could call it that, was mostly for Greg’s sake. Sherlock didn’t need any of it. Sherlock had two fully functional hands and all the means necessary to please himself, he chose to let a broken man slip through the cracks and into his bed.

It was positive reinforcement for Greg’s negative behaviour.

He came to Sherlock when he was desperate (and he was always desperate).

He covered it all up with alcohol; passed it off as drunken mistakes. But a hundred times? Who is he fooling?

Only himself, surely.

It started out as harmless fondling. Nothing two public school boys wouldn’t do behind closed doors. Then it progressed, but only to oral, for a time…

Things had only recently become more heated. Sherlock was back and Greg aimed to keep it that way. Only… he had no idea what Sherlock liked and Sherlock didn’t seem to like anything.

  
It was nearly impossible to please him; worse than any woman, in Greg’s book. There’s nothing worse than giving a bloke a blow job and having his prick go limp in your mouth halfway through.

Nothing turned Sherlock on either. And to make matters worse, Sherlock was the most unresponsive lover on the face of this planet.

Greg just wanted him to do more than wince and give the occasional grunt during sex.

That bastard could give a hell of a blow job. No teeth, not ever, and down to the fucking hilt. Greg liked it when he gagged… more than liked it. And when Sherlock’s chest would hit the mattress and his pale arse would stick up in the air for all the world to see… It was fucking Christmas.

That posh arse… any man would kill to get a piece of that. For fucks sake, Greg drooled over the sight of it, literally drooled over it. He’d never seen such a perfect arse; with just a bit of a curve to give a nice handle to it while he shows him who’s boss.

This didn’t make him gay by any means. No, he still liked women, loved women even. Had himself more than a few since his wife left, but he always came round to Sherlock in the end.

What, did he enjoy sexual humiliation? No. What man does?

Sherlock was a project; one he meant to see through.

He’d already gotten this far and Greg planned to take him much further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to co-author Tunalocked


	12. I Want You to Stay: Mythea

“In all honesty, I’ve never been with a woman before.”

“Neither have I,” Anthea teased.

Mycroft forced a half-smile and something that resembled a light-hearted chuckle. He didn’t find it amusing: this whole “sex business” but it had to be done.

It was a solemn reminder that he was only human.

Anthea was the only woman he trusted, aside from his own mother. She had a way about her that most men would find alluring, but Mycroft preferred Anthea for her skills and attributes not her appearance.

She would make a good sexual partner. She definitely had the body type for it; the majority of her strength being in her legs. However, she was still lacking in other areas.

Mycroft preferred coarse, lean muscle, in the shoulders and abdomen. Anthea was by no means flabby; she just lacked that _je ne sais quoi_ that Mycroft was looking for in a woman.

Basically Mycroft was looking for all of the finer qualities of a man in his potential partner. Intelligence, attentiveness, dominance, class. He wanted a partner that was well-mannered, humble, honest, and committed.

Given the criteria, his dedicated PA was his only choice, but there was another he had his eye on. The only problem was this person wouldn’t give him the time of day. He had to drag said person into his office and threaten him (or her) with their livelihood. This person had their own ideas of right and wrong, yet claimed to be on the same page with Mycroft.

They both wanted what was best for Sherlock, but had different ideas on how he should be handled.

Anthea, however, was always behind him, 100%. They never argued. Not that she would never dare, she was just wise enough to choose her battles. The other person was stubborn, pig head-ish, a true bother, and a goldfish in the grand scheme of things.

Anthea knew about this other person, perhaps not in as much detail as she should, but none-the-less she was aware of his (or her) existence. She wasn’t the jealous type. On the contrary, she welcomed the challenge.

She had already infiltrated Mycroft’s home, which up until this point was his private oasis.

After a few glasses of wine and some dancing, he was ready to give it a try. Unfortunately, by the time they reached the bedroom, shyness had taken its hold.

He didn’t know whether to have it face to face or if her being pointed in the opposite direction would make things less... _awkward._

She was giggling, which didn’t help matters. Mycroft was self-conscious. Just the thought of all his freckles being on display was enough to make him cringe.

“We’ll start slow,” Anthea told him. “What do you like to do for foreplay?”

Mycroft clammed up. This wasn’t polite dinner discussion; he had no automated response.

“What would you like for the detective inspector to do to you?” she rephrased.

“I... I’m-“

“Shh,” she hushed, pressing a finger to his lips. “I know.”

She didn’t know the half of it.

Mycroft swallowed hard, trying to find the words. Never have words failed him before. He’s always had the grand gift of speech for as long as he can remember, but in that moment he was completely tongue-tied.

“Close your eyes,” she said in a sultry tone.

Mycroft did as he was told.

“Would you like for him to touch you here?” she asked, gently running her finger down his cheekbone to the tip of his chin.

“Yes,” he responded.

Mycroft felt the first few buttons of his shirt coming undone, followed by a gentle caress of his chest hair.

“And here?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said once more.

He felt a shiver run up his spine as she moved lower and lower.

“Here?” she teased.

 _“Yes,”_ he whispered. He began nibbling on his lower lip.

Her hand slid down further still, to his trouser’s waist. Then...

“Yes, yes!” he cried out. He needn’t be asked if he wanted the detective inspector to touch him there. It was enough to make him weak in the knees.

Anthea began to grope him through his trousers and Mycroft leaned forward for a kiss.

She was surprisingly forceful. Her tongue sought out his immediately. He had to battle for dominance, which was proving to be difficult.

When she finally yielded, he decided to take things more slowly, caressing her lips with his own.

Mycroft hummed against her lips as he let his mind wander. He felt incredibly naughty, but somehow having Anthea know exactly what he was thinking made it that much more exciting.

Mycroft had never played out a sexual fantasy. Granted he didn’t have many.

She pressed gently on his shoulders, guiding him towards the bed.

Mycroft's eyes fluttered open.

“No peaking,” she laughed. “Turn around.”

Mycroft closed his eyes once more and turned away from her.

“Here, so you don’t cheat,” she said as she wrapped one of his ties around his head, and brought it down to cover his eyes.

A slight panic rose in Mycroft’s chest, but he knew Anthea would never do anything to hurt him.

“On the bed,” she commanded and he obeyed.

Anthea helped Mycroft with his shirt. He flinched when he felt her tracing out the freckles on his shoulder.

“Angel kisses,” she remarked, pressing a kiss to his right shoulder.

For a moment Mycroft was taken aback. He felt an odd sort of warmth, followed by a knot in his stomach. He wrote it off as nerves.

He heard her let out a sigh as she ran her hand through his hair. She began a trail of kisses from his neck to the tip of his shoulder.

“Get used to it,” she told him, noting his stiff apprehension.

“I don’t believe I ever will.”

“That detective inspector will eat you up,” she said with a gentle fondness in her voice as she caressed his chest. “He’ll want to kiss every bit of you. Your nose,” she said, pressing a kiss to his nose. “Your lips, your cheek, your chin,” she said, giving him a peck on the lips, cheek, and chin. “He’ll want to kiss every one of your freckles. On your shoulder, yours arms, the back of your hand...” She made a trail of kiss down his right arm. “I think most of all, he’ll want to kiss you right here,” she said, laying a kiss on his ring. “He’d be a fool not to worship you.”

Mycroft hummed in response. She was stroking his ego. He liked it.

“Lay down.”

Mycroft complied.

“Now tell me, _sir_ , where would you like to be kissed?”

He didn’t want to answer that. He knew exactly _where_ but saying it was another matter.

“Don’t be shy,” she teased.

“Call me Mycroft.”

“ _My croft.”_

God, how he liked the sound of it coming from her. Her tone was borderline possessive. _My-croft._

He reached out to touch her. She was so soft. He ran the back of his hand across her arm.

_Smooth. Flawless._

“I want you to kiss me _there_ ,” he finally told her.

He could almost see the coy smile on her face. He smiled at the thought of it.

He closed his eyes, underneath the blindfold, and sucked in a deep breath as she undid his trousers.

He let his breath out slowly as she wrapped her mouth around the tip. He started to sink further into the mattress as she started working it. She definitely had skill and one hell of a tongue.

It had been far too long.

He reached out to lace his fingers through her hair and guide her in her endeavours. He was grateful she allowed him to take control once more. She effortlessly took to his directions. He knew Lestrade would never be so easy. He’d need to be tamed in the bedroom.

Gregory was a tiger, whereas Anthea was a sex kitten. He couldn’t decide which was better, especially when Anthea was proving her worth between his legs.

He would just have to have both.

The idea made his cock jump.

“I’m close,” he warned and Anthea backed away.

“So am I,” she practically growled as she tore off her skirt.

Mycroft was surprised.

_Was she playing with herself?_

_That’s... hot._

Anthea was soon in a hurry. She mounted Mycroft quickly and sunk down on him with a deep groan. It was obvious she hadn’t had any in ages. She had to take a moment to adjust herself. Mycroft worried that she might have hurt herself, taking it too quickly, but before long she was off riding him.

Mycroft tensed. It felt so good he didn’t want it to end.

Her hips glided with such precision. The way she clung on to him for dear life and the noises she was making was enough to make Mycroft come undone.

Not being able to take it any longer, he removed the blindfold, to behold a truly beautiful sight. Anthea was flush and biting her bottom lip. They stared at each other a moment, before Anthea had to look away in embarrassment.

Mycroft grabbed her hips and helped her grind against him.

“What do you need?” he asked in desperation.

“Touch me,” she pleaded.

 _I am touching you_ , he wanted to say. Then he realized she meant _there._ He stopped moving to review his gross anatomy. He looked baffled at the tangled mess of genitals in his lap.

He reached out to rub what he thought was her clitoris and by her reaction he was pretty sure he got it right.

It only took a moment or two of stimulation before she gasped and tensed.

Mycroft thought that was all, but then she started riding him fast and hard. He could feel himself becoming undone. The sensation pooled in his groin and without warning, he found his release.

He closed his eyes and let the overwhelming rush of dopamine consume him.

He was left breathless. He’d never experienced anything like it.

Once Anthea dismounted, he felt empty.

“ _Stay_ ,” he pleaded.

He watched as Anthea thought it over. She looked at him with such pity. He grabbed her hand and held on tight.

“I want you to stay.”


	13. Just This Once- Sherstrade

"I just need a place to stay. Just this once, I swear. You know I'm desperate. I'd never... I've never asked anything of you before. Well, besides that... Look, Sherlock, she's turned me out on the streets. I can't possibly afford a hotel and put down a deposit on the flat. They want two months rent upfront. John's not even here! And it's just for the weekend."

_God, if you could just do this one thing for me once. Please._

"I've got nowhere else to go."

_A decent human being would have let me in the door already. And since when does Sherlock answer the door? Is his landlady in? Is everyone on a Sherlock-free holiday?_

"Look, if it bothers you that much I'll sleep on the sofa, honest. I know you and John aren't... Like that and even if your were… It's just for the weekend, I promise. And if the place falls through I'll just go somewhere else. You won't have to put up with me for long."

_Why are you so worried? I'd never try anything. I'm not that sort of person._

"Please."

_Do I have to beg?_

_He's not actually considering it, is he?_

"Oh, thanks, mate. You won't regret this. I owe you, big time."

_Man it reeks. What is he working on? Smells like soldered flesh. Probably is._

_What have I gotten myself into?_

" I don't mind the sofa, you know. A bit used to it: sad enough."

_Is my proximity an issue? Does he not want me sleeping so close? Does he even sleep? Of course he sleeps; everybody sleeps. When he's not drugged out of his mind..._

"I'll take care of dinner. You don't have to worry about it."

_I doubt he's too worried. What does he eat anyhow? Have I ever seen him eat? He drinks tea I_ _’m fairly sure... No, but seriously, when have I ever seen him eat?_

"What do you care for? I can cook. Take-away?"

_There_ _’s probably nothing edible in this place._

"I guess, if you're not hungry..."

_He should really eat. I'd feel bad eating in front of him if he hasn_ _’t eaten._

"You're sure?"

_I need to take care of someone other than myself; that's the whole reason I'm in this mess in the first place._

"You don't have a favourite food? Nothing I could tempt you with?"

_That came out wrong._

"I can't just eat in front of you... No, you don't need to be in the other room. You need to eat."

_Now I know what John feels like._

_Is he like this all the time?_

"If you tell me what you like, I'll make it. Anything at all... I don't care if you ate lunch. It's dinner! Hell, if you want to have cake and ice cream for dinner, go ahead, but you have to eat something... Why? You know why! You'll pass out, that's why... Yes I know it's close to bedtime... You'll slip into a coma in your sleep, you..."

_Idiot!_

"Why should I care? I just do! Alright?"

_You stupid, stupid man. Can't you see what's right in front of your face? Mr 'you-see-but-you-don't-observe'._

"I give up."

_No I don't._

"You win."

_No you don't. I'll make you eat, one way or another._

"I just won't eat either."

_Brilliant, DI Ghandi._

"I'm just going to sit here, watch telly, and... You're gone."

_Shit, where did he run off to? I don't care. I really don't._

_I'm so hungry. And stupid._

_Why do I always have to pick a fight?_

_Choose my battles. That's what my 75_ _£ an hour "marital therapist" always said._

_While he's gone, might as well catch a wink of sleep. No doubt he'll be up at all hours of the night experimenting on God knows what._

**2 hours later**

_What's that smell?_

"Chinese?"

"You didn't have to, I would have gladly... I know I look tired. I am, but that’s beside the point."

_Since when does Sherlock care if I'm tired?_

"Well, ta."

_This is actually pretty good. The boy has good taste. Probably bloody expensive too._

"I'll pay you back. How much was it? Don't start with me... I just want to know what I owe you."

_Calm. Just take it._

"Fine."

_I'm just tired. That's all. Just a bit touchy._

"Sorry. I really didn't mean to make my problems yours. You're the last person I'd..."

_Where am I going with this?_

"I'd never take advantage of you."

_Even though I do all the time. I'd be lost without him._

_Now, that's sad._

"Fortune cookie? These things, I swear… 'The object of your desire comes closer'..."

_Oh God, did I just gulp? The man can read me like a book. Don't think about 'it'. Not now. Not right now._

"Excuse me, I just need to..."

_Get the hell out of here._

_I'll just lock myself in the bathroom and never come out._

_God, that was embarrassing. What is wrong with me? I've never been this awkward before._

_He can smell fear, I swear._

_His eyes. Damn his eyes._

_I don't want to seem desperate. He doesn't deserve that. He's not just some rebound, runner-up, consolation prize. I need time._

_Now he's going to think I'm taking a shit._

_What is wrong with me? Why do I care?_

_I don't._

_I just need to go out there and face him like a man._

"I'm probably going to turn in. So, whatever you have to do... I'm a heavy sleeper."

_I pretty much gave him the go ahead to experiment on me in my sleep._

_God, he has nice body lines._

_I don't... I'm not like 'that'._

_I was, once._

"Must get lonely. Without John, I mean. I can't imagine what it's going to be like on my own. I haven't lived alone in... Ages."

_That makes me sound ancient._

"I don't know why I'm telling you all of this."

_I really don't._

"I haven't been a good friend to you or really friendly at all. I just... Expect you to be at my beck and call, all the time. And... I'm sorry. It's a real shit thing for me to do: take advantage of you like that. I can see why you're not too keen on me staying here. I just feel like... I never do anything for you. You know? Like in return."

_Like drop to my knees and..._

"All I'm saying is: I understand now."

_That I want you, so bad._

_I just want to reach out and touch you. Hold your hand and never let go._

_God, I want you to touch me._

_I feel weak in the knees just looking at you._

_I know in staring, I don't care._

_My mouth is so dry, I want your wet lips on mine. I need to quench this primal thirst._

_He'll think I'm desperate!_

_I am._

_I so, so am._

_I want it so bad, it hurts. I've wanted it since day one._

_He's just so exotic. I want to taste him._

_How long can we keep eye contact before one of us breaks down and..._

"I should be getting ready for bed..."

_His hand is on my wrist._

_I'm terrified. My heart is pounding in my ears.  
_

_Is this what I really want?_

"God, yes."

_Did I really just say that out loud?_

_What will this be like? Should I slam him against a wall? Should we be on the floor right now? In a bed? Will it be tender? Will I cry? Will he cry? Who will be on top?_

"Listen..."

_Kiss me, damn it._

"Mmm."

_God he tastes like sex and cherries. Alright, wall it is._

_Not too rough._

_He's shaking, my God. Steady._

"I know, I know."

_Not too fast._

_I can't help it._

_His buttons are just begging to come loose._

_I thought he'd be clean shaven. His chest hairs are so light. Soft too._

_I could just kiss a line down his chest. I think I might._

_He's still shaking. Is he really that nervous?_

"I've got you. You’re fine. It’s all going to be fine."

_He's stuttering now. I need to calm him down._

_There, both my hands on his hips, steady now_. _It_ _’s alright._

"Would you feel better if we were in bed?"

_Of course he would._

_I never thought he'd be so... delicate... No, that's not the word for it. Fragile_ _’s more like it._

_His hand is so cold but his pupils are blown. I doubt he can see past his nose right now. He's so petrified of what might happen. To us. I guess I am too._

"Are you sure? We don't have to do this."

_There's no turning back for him. I know he'll go through with it, despite his true feelings. What it must be like, inside his head._

_His bedroom is so... Different. It's neat and tidy. Yes, this is a much better spot to make love._

_Out there it's so impersonal. He'd think I just want to get off._

_It's so much more than that._

_He's such a private person; it'd be best if I close the door, no matter if the place is empty._

"Nervous?"

_That's a stupid question. He's clutching on to the bed as if it_ _’s his only life-line._

_Has he ever..._

"Spread your legs."

_He doesn't seem too sure._

"Trust me."

_It's just a blow job. You'll feel fantastic. Hopefully..._

_These trousers are impossible. He can't just wear jeans, can he?_

_There we go._

_Not half bad._

_Well groomed._

_Now let's ease that tension..._

"Just relax."

_It's been a while... the taste takes some getting used to._

_He seems to like it._

_I wonder if he'd ever do the same_ _…_

_He's getting a bit pushy. I'll let it slide, this time._

_I hate having a hand on the back of my head; I know what I'm doing!_

_How much longer? My jaw is going numb._

_I could get him off like this, but where's the fun in that?_

_Alright enough of this._

"Lay back."

_Now, am I up for the job?_

_Half-hard, damn. Won't take long, though. A little foreplay and I should be there._

_It feels good being on top again. His skin is so soft. I could rub up against him anywhere._

_He does like kissing. So enthusiastic. I hope he knows what's coming his way._

_Am I grunting?_

_I'm such an animal tonight._

_I want him on his belly. I don't know if he'll go for it._

_Face to face is great, but I need a full view of what I'm dealing with._

"Roll over."

_My brain._

_I'm flat-lining._

"Such... Perfect... Arse."

_Was that even English?_

_I'm in awe of his arse! It's perfectly rounded, grab-able, plush, and mine for the taking._

_Gentle, gentle._

"It's alright, that's it."

_I could just sink into him now. Grab him by the hips and..._

_No, I gotta treat this one special. One finger at a time; stroking him all the while: a little something familiar with something new._

"How's that?"

_He's moaning for it._

_He was made for this._

_A born bottom._

_Just one more finger._

_Damn, a bit too much._

"Are you... Is it too much?"

_He thinks he's ready. He's not. I don't think I am either._

_What does this mean for us?_

_A relationship?_

_It can't. Sherlock would never allow it._

_He needs me though._

_He needs this._

_Personal contact._

_Skin to skin._

"Are you ready?"

_Slowly, slowly._

_That's so..._

"Fucking tight. Just a bit more... God... Come on."

_I can't believe this._

"That's it."

_Take it, take every inch of it._

"You're doing so well."

_His muscles are so taught. I could just fuck him flaccid._

_No, he deserves more._

_Light, slow, gentle thrusts. Just barely a roll of the hips, while I press my weight against him. He can take it._

_I could lie like this forever, buried inside him, with my cheek pressed against his shoulder blade. He deserves to be held and caressed. The world is so cruel to him._

_If I don_ _’t get off tonight, at least I'll know his first time wasn't terrible._

_I'm so drowsy._

_Punch-drunk in love._

_He's getting pushy though._

_I love that._

"Alright."

_I can't believe I'm laughing during sex. It's just so funny. He's so needy._

_And still hard too._

_God, if I was him I would have lost it by now._

"How's that? Harder? Harder still?"

_I can't! If I drive my hips any harder the bed post is going to go through the wall. Maybe that's what he wants._

_What does he need?_

"Up on your knees."

_Alright, I can get a better handle like this._

_Oh, he's pushing back into it. He wants it. Bad._

"Fuck."

_He's getting off on this._

_I'm getting off on this._

_I'm not being too rough, am I?_

_God, he's insatiable._

"Oh fuck."

_I'm going to cum._

"Cum."

_This is fantastic!_

_Pulsating in my toes. I can feel the world lifting off my shoulders._

"Oh! Fuck!"

_I'm coming!  
_

"Jesus Christ."

_I need to... I need to get him off. I don't care if I have to suck it out of him like a straw._

"On your back."

_Beautiful bastard, I will take you to the hilt and choke on it, that's how much I love you._

_He is so close I can taste it._

_I want to watch his face._

_God, he's beautiful._

_Just a bit more..._

"Cum for me."

"GREG!"


End file.
